Intergalactic Love Songs
by danidangerbear
Summary: Two women. Separated by a vast expanse of universe and the ruthless government that rules it. One red flashing light. That's all it takes to send their worlds crashing together into a new adventure and a new love that may even outshine the brightest star!
1. This Mix Could Sink the Sun

**Hey errybody! This is my attempt at a Faberry Fic. I can honestly say, that it was the awesomness of the Faberry fanbase that turned me onto Rachel and Quinn as a couple. And even better than that, it was the amazing writers of Faberry Fanfics that got me hooked on watching Glee! I mean, seriously, you guys are the best of the best! The best fans, and the best writers! I hope this story can do the Faberry name justice.**

**With that said, I would like to note that this story is pretty AU. I have read many many many Faberry stories and have yet to see one set in a universe quite like the one I have created, so I hope you enjoy! This will be a multipart fic, and if you finish reading this with unanswered questions, don't fret! I assure you they will be answered in a gradual manner as I write my way through this story.**

**Story Rating: M because it's awesome**

**Chapter Rating: T for language and quite possibly some mild inappropriate interaction. **

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own the title to Glee or any of it's characters. I am just borrowing them for my own selfish pleasures and will return them slightly used when finished.**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 1: This Mix Could Sink the Sun <strong>

The flash of a red light. Everything I know and am begins with the damn flashing of red that dances mockingly across my face, warning me of potential impulse engine failure. Any other day and this would send me into an imminent rampage, flailing myself about; cursing at my no-good mechanic for his patented incompetence.

"What the fuck Puck!" I scream into the intercom connecting me to engine bay one. Not too long after, I hear my mechanic's shaky reply as he stumbles on the other side to respond.

"Hey—uh…we might have a problem babe. I think you better get down here quick!"

Okay, so maybe this wasn't much different from the "any other day" I so casually mentioned. I'm increasingly ignited with a burning ferocity by every flash of warning light before me. I'm aware that every second I take to think is a second I lose of reaction time, which puts us all only minutes away from indefinite disaster. However, at the time, I wasn't aware that this one particular incident would inevitably change my life forever. Almost as if the twenty-five years I had already spent existing in this God damned universe only served as an insignificant precursor to the flash of red light that now awakens me to the beginning of my life.

"Santana!" I call for my Chief Officer before I head down to the engine bay. The ship's power starts flickering on and off continuously in accord with that blasted red flashing light. As if I couldn't tell before, I'm almost positive it's mocking me now.

This plays up the seriousness in my tone as I call for her again somewhat frantically. I should probably pre-note the lack of taking anything even remotely serious on this rust-bucket of a ship. It seems to be a common theme around here.

Though, this time, the unruly circumstances did a good enough job of whipping my second in command into adequate shape. She's beside me in seconds. Without another word from either one of us, she immediately grabs the controls and takes my place piloting the large ship.

The time limit allowed for hesitation is becoming more and more limited. If the flashing of lights across the ship weren't evidence enough, then surely the looks on both our faces relay that fact. I don't have time to explain and she doesn't ask for it. So, I leave her to it with nothing more than—what is meant to be—an encouraging whimper and a slight pat on the shoulder.

Before I can even catch my breath, I'm down in the engine bay searching for any sign of Puck through the thick fog of smoke and electrical sparks flying throughout the room. It's hard to see in the thick atmosphere of engine exhaust. The electrical sparks make me jump as they nip and burn my skin. My senses are mildly preoccupied by all the commotion happening around me that, not too long into my search, I run straight into a rock solid chest. Strong arms struggle to catch my shoulders before I can fall flat on my ass.

"Puck! You fuckin' asshole! Watch what you're doing! This is why shit like this happens in the first place God dammit!" I scream above the loud squeals of the engine. Though I think my words are easily lost in the thick cloud of smoke fumes that builds between us, and it's only then I realize that I'm wasting even more time—more time that I really don't have. I push past him, ignoring his lame attempts to explain, and slip up under the faulty engine.

It wasn't hard to spot out the problem area. Damn near blinded me with just one look in its direction; blinded enough sense into me to feel ready for the reaction phase of this situation.

From my spot under the engine, I grab what I can see of Puck's baggy work pants and tug his feet out from under him. He slips backwards and crashes to the hard floor beside me with a loud grunt, signaling the intense pain I know he has to be feeling by now. It may seem harsh at first, and even when I look back at it, I might feel somewhat bad for treating him like that so unexpectedly—okay, so that may possibly be yet another lie. In all actuality, the action was one that brought joy to my soul and is honestly the only entertainment anyone on this ship gets during those long deep space voyages. He knows he's just expected to deal and surprisingly has nothing to say as I jerk him closer to yell instructions in his ear.

"It's a busted thruster! I need a metal plate and the welder! Any metal plate you can find will do! After you get me those two things, I want you to run up to the main deck, wait EXACTLY fifteen minutes. Then, tell Santana to flip the entire power grid! Can you do that asshole?" He just nods his head frantically in reply, not accustomed to this side of me. As a matter of fact, none of my crew ever really sees this side of me. It's only on the rarest occasions that my HBIC manages to leak through, and I'm fairly certain it's made quite the impression today. It frequents mostly on the days we're the most careless, this day being no exception. Maybe today was just the day they finally slackened to the point of almost useless.

Thankfully, Puck makes up for all the moments I had wasted in thought, with his fearfully speeded attempt to gratify my most displeased alter-ego. Only seconds after my rant, I can hear the clinking of tools as they touch the ground next to my head. He even went as far as to bring a face-mask for protection—how thoughtful.

I don't tell him this though. I hide my appreciation like candy from a toddler in fear that even the slightest, "thanks," would happily send him spiralling back to his old ways. It's better that I stay silent; not let him see an ounce of emotion either way—neither happy nor mad. Now that I finally have their attention, I would thoroughly like to keep it...at least until we're further out of harms reach. It's only when he turns away to leave that I feel a necessity to speak to him.

"Seriously Puck! No less than fifteen fucking minutes! All I'm asking for is fifteen to get in, patch up, and pull out!" I see the internal struggle across his face as he desperately battles the smile that threatens to arise at my innuendo.

"Sure thing captain!" he responds in a hurried tone as if it were the cure to the giggles currently welling up inside him. The point is he's trying to remain serious—so, I ease up on him slightly.

"If Santana flips that switch while I'm still under this thing and I get fried, I swear on my mother's grave I will come back to life and kill every God damn one of you." My tone, however, is much harsher than I had originally intended. It's hard to find common ground again after the bitch switch is flicked. Puck, however, makes the smart move and lets me hold onto the rest of this moment, leaving me to my work with a sloppy salute.

After the slackest attempt at patchwork I have ever seen, I quickly slip out from under the engine and brush the dirt and fumes from my pants. The engine has stopped smoking, and my lungs are thankful for the deep breath of fresher air.

Not too much later after that, I can feel the power snap off per my instruction. The darkness that overtakes the _Unholy Trinity_ becomes chilling as I fight to find my way back to the main deck. Never underestimate the blackness of space. It's well-known for the way it sucks away the weakest of light, hiding it away in dark abyss as if it had never existed. I can almost feel it tickling at my neck hairs, causing me to jump at every sound.

What is it about darkness that makes us so fearful? Is it the lack of control we feel at the loss of one of our most vital senses as we search our way through, blindly, for some form of relief? Or perhaps it's the stories we're told as children, about all the horrible things that undoubtedly take refuge in the dark—aside our darkest of secrets—that scare us well into adulthood. Regardless of why the sudden fear, it stirs up enough motivation for me to get back to my crew, and I waste no time finding the answers to _that_ question.

"What the fuck Q? 'the hell happen down there? Has this hunk of junk finally given up on us?" Santana greeted me as I finally find the control room.

I sit down in my chair and cover my eyes with my sweaty, grease-stained forearm. Exhaustion presses lightly upon my shoulders, and I slink forward until I can no more.

I can hear the aggravation in Santana's sigh when I don't answer her immediately. It's easy to see her worry by the shortness of it, and this makes the slightest grin rise to my face. It's these moments that remind me of our humanity. It's always nice to be reassured every once in a while that, we as pirates, have a layer beneath the rough exterior we project to society. It feels nice to have moments in which we feel, even if they are short-lived and only comprised of the most basic emotions—such as fear or worry. Luckily, the sleeve of my ratty, matted shirt hides the sneer or I'm sure she would have lost more than just her temper.

Most employers would find the Latina's fiery attitude off-putting, but I guess this just further proves that I am far from most people. Besides, Santana can have her moments where she's almost loveable. And I emphasize the _almost_. We are pirates after all. Kindness and care is a sure sign of weakness where we come from. In terms of business, any "soft side" the Latina may have is useless to me and my operation.

Soon enough, my whole crew is glowering in my direction, and I can no longer stall them with my inner monologues. I straighten my posture to that of a true captain's stature, hardening my features to mask any disarray they might find in my emotion.

"Brittany! We need to land somewhere—preferably the closest planet you can find. The patch won't last long, and we're in desperate need of a magnetic rocket nozzle thruster ay-sap. I'd say we can probably get about 3pc's out of this baby," I command of my very blond navigator; tapping one of the nearby compartments as if it were my pet.

"Eye-eye Captain!" She responds, and I watch as her fingers take off into instantaneous combat mode, beating against the keyboard in front of her.

It's no surprise, and I'm sure you will see it numerous times during this tale, that Brittany's antenna has a little trouble picking up all the channels. Which, in turn, might make me seem like an idiot for selecting her to be a part of my crew in the first place—much less the ship's navigator—but what most people _don't_ know about Brittany, is that, what she lacks in mathematical skills, logistics, and common sense, she greatly makes up for with her innate sense of direction.

She can navigate these skies as if she had created them herself. I would even venture to say she is the best damn navigator in the galaxy, and most definitely a huge asset to my crew! The best part is no one ever sees it coming from the girl. This alone has given me an advantage over my adversaries more times than I can count. And then there's Santana…

"Look Q…I know you're extremely attached to this metal deathtrap, but maybe it's time to move on. I mean, do you even know how many amazing _new_ ships there are out there just waiting for us to loot? I think the _Trinity _has run her course." I don't look at her, too stubborn to admit she's right. I can feel her eyes playing across my face in attempt to better read me. She's almost the only one who can. There are very few times when she doesn't see right through my façades. I think she just likes tearing them down; like it's some sick hobby or something.

What's more important, I can see her hand out of the corner of my eye as it rests lovingly across the back of Brittany's chair. This is common of the Latina to do—always finding some way to be conveniently touching the blond in some way. They often get mistaken as a couple by onlookers and authorities.

One of the planets we raided a few months ago even released a universal article about them titled, "Nefarious Pyromantic Lovers Bring Destruction across the Galaxy: Love at Its Darkest." Santana always denies it; Brittany never focuses enough to respond with a relative answer; but I am almost positive there's something behind the Latina's gestures of affection, as elusive as they may be, it's the look in her eye that gives her away.

And it bugs me. It easily gets under my skin for a few different reasons. For one, she either won't admit it—and continues to live in denial—or she's hiding it from me. I'm leaning more towards the latter; it seems like a very "Santana" thing to do. I just, for the life of me, can't figure out why.

She knows she'd never be able to play the whole "approval" card, because, let's be honest here, _that_ is a very _unlike_ "Santana" thing to do. She's never needed approval of her mates before, and usually pursues them with even more persistence if Puck and I ever vocalize our disapproval—which is actually quite frequently.

It almost comes off as if she doesn't feel I'm important enough to be in on what she and Brittany have. As if she's keeping their relationship a secret, like an inside joke that all of us outsiders watch them laugh over time and time again. Reason two, I'm a fucktard to admit it, but…I want that too. All of it! Right down to the Nefarious Pyromantic Lovers part. I'll just never admit it out loud. It's my inside joke with me, lonely as it may be, and I don't think either one of them really even gives a damn.

"Land ho, Q. I've got confirmation of a planet not even two parsecs away. Lima? Some small merchant planet in the gamma quadrant," Brittany announces to the group, furthermore, detaching me from my musings.

"Holy—the gamma quadrant! Isn't that like, really close to one of the primary Demagogue bases!" Puck chimes in effectively taking a stand behind Brittany to search her screen for other options.

"Well, fuck a duck, Puck…I think you're right," Santana answers rather sarcastically. The look on Puck's face contorts to a different kind of dejectedness.

"Seriously Santana? Is it really necessary for you guys to constantly make nursery rhymes with my name?"

"Seriously Puckerman?" Santana imitates mockingly, "Stop being such a little girl. You're startin' to sound a lot like my mother—God rest her soul—and I'll do you a solid by warning you right now…she's proof that no one likes a whiny little bitch!"

I watch the two as they act out what is to be translated as their unconditional love for one another. Then again, picking on Puck has always been one of the most beloved pastimes for, well, at least Santana and me. There's not really much more to the guy other than that and the occasional basic mechanic skillset; just a big, brawny, straggler that somehow got sucked up into our little group. It's probably because of the immense entertainment value he brings to the ship.

"Look, I'm just worried about keeping a healthy distance from those bastards. Don't get me wrong, I'd fight off armies of them to protect this ship and its cargo, but I think this might be too risky…even for us." Okay, so maybe he's got that going for him too. He's the steel that holds this all together—whatever this fucked up situation may be—and I'll admit to maybe almost kinda sorta missing him if he ever left the crew. "I need a captain, navigator, and—whatever the hell it is you do Santana—so that I don't have to fuck around finding something else better to do with my time."

He scrapes up what very little is left of his manhood and turns back to the screen to end any further conversation. Santana has an arm raised up to a tightly clad fist that she is delicately aiming at Puck's mohawked head. And as much as I enjoy watching them go at it, I feel a slight pang of guilt for allowing it this time.

I give the girl a wink, signaling her to hold off on the guy and let him have this one. She knows as well as I do that he cares. Plus, he's like a weird pet. You kind of have to stroke his ego every once in a while to let him know you aren't really mad and want him to stay. So, she does and the resulting silence makes us become increasingly more aware of the decision that has yet to be made.

"Alright Captain, what's it gonna be?" Santana says in my direction. The usual sarcastic connotation in which she says the title is gone and that almost scares me more than crossing enemy lines. But to question my captain skills at this point of the game would not be very smart of any of them to do, and so I take her tone more as encouragement than anything. As if she were silently cheering me on in her head, "Go Quinn go!" How could I let them down now?

"Brittany! Set us a bearing of 330 mark 15 engage, and make it hot! Puck! Man engine bay one and keep a close eye on our bleeder. Notify me of complications effective immediately! Santana! Get your ass in the cockpit…we're goin' to fuckin' Lima…"

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><p>Nobody questions my decision. Instead, they quickly scatter to their assigned tasks. This abnormally compliant behavior, while strange and foreign to me, puts a smile on my face and determination in my heart. I'll never truly know exactly why they all went along with it without any further discussion, but I will always hope it's because this was the prime time to show me how much faith they have in me as a leader.<p>

It doesn't take us long to get to the small inhabitance of Lima, but it does take a hell of a lot of engine power. It's easier to tell the ship's in trouble by now. The lights continuously flicker on and off; the ship itself sputters to stops every now and then as we fly along; you can easily smell the fumes springing up from the engine bay through the ventilation system again, and I can almost see Puck cursing as he struggles to maintain what's left of the engine. I know we don't have much longer until she finally gives out in pure exhaustion and leaves us all to die a slow death stranded out in space. It's only when I see Lima that I finally stop my silent prayers.

There is only a small amount of internal celebration that I allow myself to partake in, however, because now we have a different problem. We are wanted criminals…for crimes that are punishable by most immediate death. This realization is reflecting across my crews' faces in a silent plea for further command. So, I calm their fears as best I can.

"Don't worry guys. I have a plan, just lay low, follow my lead, and everything will run smoothly," I promise as I guide the ship into the planet's orbit.

But I don't have a plan. I have no idea how this is going to play out. The only thing I do know is that I've got a severely crippled ship, no parts in order to fix it, a severe criminal record, and three crew member lives that are contingent upon my every move. I know that if we can just bypass security and receive some form of temporary residency until I can at least do a better patch up of the ship so we can make it to the closest blacklisted planet, then everything will run smoothly. But I can't place my bets that it will. And I probably wouldn't if I had the chance.

The Coalition has recently placed governmental checkpoints throughout the universe—or at least the parts they have supreme rule over. That means Planet Landing Harbor Security has increased to the point of making any criminal of the law almost suicidal in nature to try and dock one. That's why we stick with the blacklisted planets. Most of them have been either exiled from the Coalition, supposedly destroyed in battle, deemed to have "unlivable" conditions for our species' survival, or any combination of the three.

Mostly, it's just a planet that, once upon a time, pissed the Coalition off and got sent to permanent timeout as punishment; a way to show not only the perpetrators, but everybody else on every other planet that they were in control. Very few of the planets are actually unlivable. For the most part, they harbor people like me, who wouldn't bode well in the Coalition's public eye, while the Coalition turns theirs blindly. They don't, however, turn a blind eye to criminals brave enough to enter their territory.

But, between the condition of my ship and the impact it will have on my crew, I'm fresh out of options. Chances of us being figured out instantly upon debarkation are the highest odds I've faced in a while—even with my less than flawless gambling record. I can't help but think to myself _you really are one suicidal son of a bitch._

My moment to shine comes quickly as the planet's air traffic control man dictates loudly through our radio controls. I pause briefly to compose myself and get in character. One deep breath in, one deep breath out. In with the good shit, out with the bullshit. Cue line feigning severe mechanical distress and requesting a voluntary landing visa. Luckily, this is easy and requires very little skill on my part to achieve a solid win. I would give myself a congratulatory pat on the back, but before I can the ship jerks unexpectedly. The planet's Control manually guides it down through the atmosphere and into an open bay.

I can once again feel all three of my crewmembers' eyes submissively waiting for me to deliver the next move—the next instruction. But I won't give them words, only the presence of a leader who is hell-bent on deceit. I am fully aware that this is where I truly need to be in full character. I relay this thought to each crew member through brief eye contact before the doors to the ship slowly open.

I must be a better actor than I thought, because before I know it, the control crew has already given thumbs up on the inspected ship and we're following one guy off to fill out necessary paperwork for both the temporary residency pass and access card to the bay.

As we're walking to our attendant's office it becomes clearer that the planet size is quite proportional to that of its subsequent landing station. In fact, there isn't really much of a landing station at all. It's just a random assortment of ship docks scattered across the dirt planet.

This lack of an official station upturns my hopes. Not only that, but it also gets me questioning the planet's security levels. Is it possible that, the size of the planet masked its importance as a security threat and the Coalition overlooked it when assigning the new protocol? If so, does this mean we have a fighting chance?

The Gods I prayed to earlier have answered these questions, and more, with the residency pass and access card that are effectively placed in my care by Lima's chief of control. I can't tell you why, but I always knew they had a soft spot for little old me. _Note to self: thank Gods later…preferably sometime before you begin celebrating—but that's just a rough estimate. _

And just like that, the deal was sealed; with nothing more than a handshake and a, "Welcome to Lima."

"I need a fuckin' drink," Santana finally released with a breathy sigh once we get back to the _Trinity_.

My crew looks rough and tired. Then again, I can't recall many times when we don't look that way. Brittany's normally beautiful blond hair is frizzy and loose in its ponytail atop her head. Its current luster has faded into the pale imitation of a glow it used to know. Her head looks heavy with the burden of unmanaged hair as it rests upon Santana's shoulder.

If you look closely, you can easily spot two barely noticeable bags taking refuge beneath the Latina's half-closed eyes. The fact that she is leaving them this way is shocking. Even more so is the fact that she didn't put make-up on at all today. If anything were a sign of exhaustion, surely it would be this.

Not that I would bring it up. Santana would be overly sensitive about the topic. But sometimes it's just enough to recognize the small tolls our travels take on the irrepressible Latina. It's a reminder for me to accept that none of us are immortal. She throws a canteen filled with water down to the mohawked boy beside her.

"Heard!" Puck adds, slumping to the ground and allowing himself to finally relax.

He's wearing one patented "Puckasaurus" smile as he stares off into the distance at nothing in particular. Who am I kidding; he's always wearing that stupid grin as if it were the latest fashion statement, flashing it to any human receptive to whatever alluring charm it has to offer. He offers one to me. And God help me, if I don't bite my lips any harder, the contagion of it all would soon spread across my own face, making me no better than the stupid grinning fool before me.

I throw the smile Santana's way, desperate to rid myself of its daft glow, and Brittany intercepts it before it can reach contentedly rigid lips. I hate how it looks on me and Puckerman, but the way it brightens up the blonde's worn-out face sends waves of joy throughout my body. She's aiming that idiot's classic grin at me, cocked and loaded, and I can only smile harder. It has the same effect on the Latina the minute Brittany fires one her way. That's all it takes, Santana's ugly-ass interpretation of the "Puckasaurus" grin, before we spill over the edge of sanity and into a sea of frenzied laughter.

"I think that after a day like today, I'm not opposed to a drink or two," I answer them as we settle down. Their faces doubly brighten to the good news and they fidget excitedly in their seats waiting for more. "As far as I see it, we have more than enough time to fix the ship and leave. I don't see why starting can't wait until tomorrow. Besides, we should spend tonight celebrating…we are the luckiest bunch of motherfuckers I've ever met, after all!"

A loud cheer is raised to my proposal. I smile in my reverie. Tonight is, indeed, the night that would be utmostly celebrated for years to come.

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><p>It didn't take much to guess this was a merchant planet. Signs of the lowly lifestyle decorated their buildings and covered their streets in various forms of trash. Depression hung thick in the city's air as if it were eagerly trying to choke what life lingered about its already frail-looking citizens. But this was to be expected of a merch planet. They were not a rich nation. They were not a happy nation. They are poor and hungry; always watching you as you pass them on the street like they were sizing you up for their next meal—really, not too different from the blacklisted planets. Not too far off from the life I've come to know.<p>

The only difference might be that these people were ultimately innocent—hungry to the point of starvation, but harmless—where, you wouldn't be as lucky to find such innocent intents on a blacklisted planet. They may not even be hungry at all, but would eat you just to hear the grinding of your bones in their teeth.

That and the Coalition enjoys the amount of power they hold over these poor merchants as well as the immense payday from their offerings. How could you not when you have the ability to leech off of ignorant peasants with varied trades willing to do your bidding? This is why the merchant planets are kept so close to military bases and government stations. So they can be monitored. So they can be easily controlled. So they won't get any crazy ideas from outsiders and potentially try to rebel. In fact, they don't really want them to communicate with anyone at all; that's the real reason they started enforcing the harsh protocol.

And as Santana, Brittany, Puck, and I are walking through the city trying to scrounge up what little scraps of food this planet has to offer with some of our looted money, I can't help but think to myself, _obviously the Coalition didn't fully analyze the risks involved in breeding generations of ignorance, or they wouldn't have made them dumb enough that they'd readily forget protocol and welcome people like me into their homes. _

Eventually we stumble upon this little hole-in-the-wall bar, deep in the heart of downtown "crapsville." It's cleaner than most of the places we frequent on other planets, so as long as they've got the liquor and I've got the tolerance, I really have no problem with it. The encouraging smell of feet and mushrooms lulls in the air, strangely enough, causing my shoulders to finally relax in the foreign environment; the smell of home.

I perch myself up on a barstool and call to the bartender for two rounds of the strongest drink they have with familiarity in my voice and the remnants of Puck's stupid smile in my soul. I don't like allowing myself to feel such an illusory happiness, but, as it is, I'm still just too tired to care. In fact, I'm willing the bartender to bring my drink faster, so I can begin to carry on with this drowning of myself in as many false senses of security as humanly possible.

A big burly man glowers down from his place beside me, aware of my non-native stature and seemingly angered by my presence at his local bar. The big ape doesn't intimidate me though. I've fought off bigger men than him before. Plus I have puck to the other side of me, and we have become quite the contenders when it comes to bar fighting. I almost want him to start something. But he doesn't. I've forgotten that this isn't one of my usual blacklisted bars. I shouldn't expect any fights tonight unless I'm the one who instigates one, and even then, I think the worst they would do is throw me out as soon as I start it. A weak planet indeed.

Two drinks slide down the bar; one slipping past me to Puck's waiting hand, and the second into my own. All it takes is a knowing wink and the celebratory clink of our glasses to bring start to our unambiguous night.

The liquid burns my throat as it crusades its way to my belly and suddenly drops to the weight of lead when it hits my intestines. It is instantly one of the best drinks I've ever had, and this brings another involuntary smile to my lips. I'm impressed by Lima's prospects in the form of alcohol. How can a city so shitty and poor have something so very good? I suppose they _are_ merchants. Hell, half of the people here tonight probably irrigated, brewed, and supplied most of the liquor at this very bar. It's a pity that something as amazing as this has to go to waste on the Coalition.

I tip the mug back against my avid lips and dump what's left of the drink down my ready and willing throat. If all of life's most carnal desires could be dealt in this manner, I would relish about in the smooth way it goes down, never once leaving me dry and unsatisfied.

I'm in the middle of enjoying the burning sensation, when all of the sudden I can feel the lights around the bar slowly dim to darkness around me. The sound of a microphone being rustled about can be heard through the speaker system and a bright spotlight flashes on the small stage in the corner of the room to reveal a dazzling young girl lying atop a piano. I lower my drink to get a better view; the mug suddenly becoming more obstructive than helpful to me at this point. Her red, sparkling dress reflects beams of direct light to my eyes making my vision foggy as I soak in what looks to be an angel through the haze. Then, the skilled hands of the piano man send an amazing riff of piano chords throughout the room, adding even more to her heavenly air. She begins to sing.

"_If you came to make some trouble… Better make it good."_

Her dark eyes rest upon the audience—concentrated orbs of persuasion and perfection—able to capture the attention of even the drunkest man.

"_Your sexy cocktail hour stubble…is doing what it should."_

I am captivated immediately by the abrupt upward inflection in her alluring voice as it melds with the piano and pries a stake through my very soul.

"_Looks may be sweet and subtle…I think its trouble, honey, I think it's good."_

"_If you came to make trouble…make me a double, honey, I think it's good."_

Her voice flows so sweetly through those last few lines that I'm surprised to see them fade so quickly, almost as if they should still be hanging in the air. The sound is so pleasant to my ears that my heart aches for the tune once more.

The stage lights up once again and reveals a full band, complete with guitar and bass. As if the piano didn't add enough to the sound already. The girl suddenly comes to a sitting position atop the piano, and while doing so, she makes full show of flipping her long dark hair before it falls in loose ringlets on the feminine, muscular crest of her bare shoulders. She oozes pure confidence like I've never seen from a mere merchant girl. It's drilling the power into every note she sings. It controls the seductive manner in which she's moving as she walks across the stage to toy with the fellow bar patrons closest to her. Soon enough, I can tell she's making her way off the stage and her confidence pinpoints me as the next target.

_Love will not be outdated…maybe placated, but it's got to be good…_

The bass rumbles across the floor, making my body vibrate to life as if that's what she's willing me to feel behind her steady gaze. The little red cocktail dress she's wearing moves with the sway of her hips that, must be in tune to the beat of my heart by now. Though the music is loud, I can still hear the clicking of those delectable heels as she approaches, through the untethered rhythm flowing throughout my chest. She's stalking in my direction with a mischievous grin across her ruby lips.

_We're so precarious...with semantics_

She continues to sing compellingly, only this time it seems as if it is just to me as she circles where I sit at the bar. One of her perfectly manicured fingernails slips its way lightly between my shoulder blades and I watch it hungrily, loving the clash of her cherry red fingernails against my faded black captain's coat.

_I think this could be trouble…I think its trouble, honey, I think it's good._

She sits sideways across my lap. Her face inches closer with every word she is still singing directly to me. The light shift of her weight across my legs as she's moving forward combined with the way those cherry red fingernails play at the baby-fine hairs of my neck send multiple chills throughout my body that I'm almost positive have nothing to do with the deep baseline that still rumbles throughout the building.

_If you came to make trouble…make me a double, honey, I…think it's good…_

I can taste her sweet breath on my lips as she hovers ever so closely, and the sweet meringue taste makes my mouth water with desire. I can hear the catcalls from everyone in the room, especially Puck, who is currently my biggest cheerleader for the happening in this moment. Just as I expect the taste of her breath to turn into the feel of that same tangy sweetness dissolve across my burning lips…She smiles. And before I can even fully grasp the situation, she's once again on her feet.

The absence of her body brings me crashing to reality in time to actively reach out to wrap her back in the safety of my embrace. But before I can, she pushes me back to my seat harshly, with just the flick of one dainty hand. Those same red fingernails I praised only seconds ago, now seem deceptively cruel as they once again clash against my captain's coat.

I am left there, in my humiliation, to stare after her well-rounded ass that mockingly waves goodbye with the continued sway of her hips as she's walking away. To stare after her would mean I willingly admit my failure. To admit my failure would mean I am voluntarily showing weakness. To show my most agonizing weakness for the marvelous shape of this woman would make me so vulnerable. Vulnerability that, up until this moment, I haven't even fessed up to having myself—and god forbid I lose what's left of my pride. I am a fearless leader. I have no weakness. I am the dreaded captain Quinn Fabray: terror of the undivided universe!

But I cannot resist watching that ass as she walks away. I am under the spell of the bewitching singer, and almost don't care that this makes me weak. My mind is still too messed up from the events that just happened to care. I just now signed over my captaincy to the marvelous ass of a woman, and God almighty does it feel good.

I can still sense her quintessence floating in the air around me as she disappears backstage. The lights dim and the song fades away into the sounds of raucous bar conversation once again. My body suddenly feels overheated under the dusty bar lights and I excuse myself for some fresh air.

As I step outside, I am, all at once, overwhelmed by the amount of dirt and sand being blown through the air. It's only the coolness of the breeze against my blazing skin that convinces me to stay. I cough mildly to pass the rubble that comes along with it, now building in my lungs. I should have expected this of the planet. You couldn't see the slightest trace of water from space, and its rustic color hinted at the clay-like surface. My coughing drowns out the creaking of the bar doors behind me.

"Hey Q, you okay? You seemed a bit….flustered back there," Santana asks flittingly.

"I wasn't flustered! I was sitting under all those bar lights and then, with the spotlight shining down on me, the heat became almost unbearable!"

"Toe-may-toe, toe-motto, Q...anyhoo, I just came out here to tell you that I think you should go for it," she says, void of all playfulness in her tone.

"What are you talking about San? Go for what? A heat stroke!"

"You know what I'm talking about Fabray—" she starts to say angrily. But something inside her wouldn't let her continue that way. Instead, the rest comes out as more of a slightly annoyed growl, "Just... Consider it okay?" and with that said she is gone; back into the swirling mass of sweaty life forms most likely to go and find the object of her own smoldering affections.

I know exactly what she is saying. This is the only way Santana "the Brute" Lopez knows how to genuinely give someone her blessing. Though, this is the first time I have ever heard her with such sincerity when suggesting I chase a skirt. Between her, Puck, and I, you'd think we lived amongst a pack of wild dogs the way we voice our admiration of women. Brittany is the only one who doesn't treat people like objects aboard the _Trinity_.

The tone in Santana's voice as she said what she did sounded sympathetic; almost as if she could see something about me that I failed to see myself, which had to have been horrid enough to make her feel the need to remedy it. Now, this is a sign that something must actually be wrong with me. Santana Lopez never feels the _obligation _to help someone. Why, just using the word in the same sentence as her name sounds blasphemous as it is, so I have to be giving off some vibe that was strong enough to affect that cold black heart. I dust off the back of my cargo pants, adjust my gun holsters, and recharge my confidence levels before reentering the bar. Maybe Santana is right. Maybe I should give it a shot.

I look to the spot I previously held at the bar and see Puck chatting up some blond floozy, that now commandeers my stool. In the moment, I know I should be furious at Puck for selling me out for a quick lay, but oddly enough I'm not. In fact, I'm not mad at all. I feel mildly proud watching the boy strive for that which makes him happy—even if it is just meaningless, casual sex that fulfills that void. This is the first moment I ever considered the fact that maybe casual sex might not be the thing that makes _me _happy like Puck. Maybe it doesn't even make me happy or feel fulfilled at all. Maybe I need something more.

But I don't have time to get all touchy-feely-deep with myself because as my eyes skate across the length of the bar-top, there she is. Sitting alone at the end of the bar, drinking some green concoction that has god only knows what in it. I can freely see the lipstick stain she's leaving on the brim of her glass, and it reminds me of the way her bright red fingernails felt on the nape of my neck. Obviously, if I had any self-control at all, I would grab another seat at the far end of the bar, send longing looks her way, and wait for her to come to me. Hook…line…and sinker. The operative word being _if _of course.

Obviously, I don't have any self-control at all, because I'm walking the opposite way I should be and eyeing her like the prey I have picked for my consumption. Trust me, the closer I get to her, the more I will myself to stop inside my head. It's getting louder and louder, to the point of screaming, with every step. When my feet finally follow my brain's instructions to stop, it's too late. I'm already standing right next to her; leaning tastelessly on the bar. She does a good job of ignoring me as she continues to sip her drink and stare off into nothingness before her.

I don't know if it was my intense desire for her or the fact that I knew I was mildly creepy and her classy well-deserved disregard for my presence only served to further fuel that desire, but it is at this point I feel the need to speak. In my head, I'm running through different ways I could apologize to her for my tactless behavior. I'm thinking through the ten years of classic poetry I've studied just for moments like this. I'm thinking about the way she looks in that dress, and the many ways I would love to remove it from her gorgeous body. I choose to speak after the wrong thought.

"Hi, my name is Quinn Fabray. I'm funny, financially stable, and have a very interesting DNA structure," I sputter out rather quickly, kicking myself internally for the stupidity of the comment. It gets her attention though. Even if she is glaring at me rather disturbingly, I've at least gotten her to acknowledge my existence again.

When a normal girl looks at me the way she is right now—face scowling, eyebrows furrowed, lips curled downwards, and leg shaking wild with annoyance—I give up and move on to the next ready and willing participant. But I'm so caught up in my determination for this goddess before me that I'm not even slightly embarrassed by the fact that I'm desperately taking her very basic acknowledgement of me as a sign of hope. Even if she is staring at me like she'd give anything to be one of those normal girls right now. I only wait a few more seconds before trying again.

"Can I have _your_ name?"

"Why? Don't you already have one?" She says, still eyeing me as if she were trying to glare me to death.

"Well, yea…I just told you. Maybe I should try it again, more formally," I say before clearing my throat and offering my hand for her to shake, "Captain Quinn Fabray of the _S.S Unholy Trinity_. And you are?"

"What do you want?...captain," she responds coldly. She fully ignores my offered hand and takes another long sip from her drink.

I smile at the formal use of my title. She thinks her sarcastic tone is offensive, but little does she know, it's driving me mad with passion. I shake away the rather dirty thoughts that appear once again in my head before continuing.

"Well, I just saw you sitting over here, and…you did an amazing job tonight….I don't know, I just had to come talk with you. Sweetness _is_ my weakness."

I honestly thought this was a pretty clever line, and finally gave myself a mental pat on the back for my long lost cleverness.

"You know," she says, her face less of a scowl as she leans in closer to me, "You are seriously validating my inherent mistrust of strangers." My face drops as the realization that I'm still a bumbling idiot sinks in once more. "Now, may I have the pleasure of your absence?" She continues sweetly as she pulls away and lets the same old scowl overtake her face for the second time that night.

I'm at a lost. I want to blame it on the alcohol buzzing in my system, but in the end I know my game is completely off. My jaw is hanging wide open, moving up and down as if it had something further to say. My mind is blank. I don't know how to handle a situation such as this. I've never been in one even remotely similar before. And worse yet, I look even worse than the babbling idiot I portrayed earlier. Why I'm still here is baffling me. Why I'm still trying anything, even if it be horrible conversation, with this girl is driving me up the wall.

I suppose she's bored watching my internal struggles, because she closes my jaw sweetly with her hand as she gets up to leave. My breath catches in my throat at her light touch, and before I can release it, she's gone from eyesight. I drop down into the seat she had previously occupied. The loudest bout of silence I have ever heard rings through my ears, despite the commotion around the bar. That damn heat rises up my neck again, making my ears burn with awkwardness.

"Here, this one's on me," the bartender says as he slides me a small shot of something that smells mildly of diesel oil. I lift it to my nose and it burns its way up through the cavity. I must be giving him a look of confusion, because he gives a small laugh and continues to say, "Rachel can be a heartbreaker alright. You're lucky you even got _that_ much of a conversation. Usually, she just gets up as soon as the person starts talking. You almost deserve that drink. Kinda like an 'A' for effort."

With a wink he leaves to go about fixing another order being screamed from the other side of the bar. I throw the shot back as if my life depends on it. There isn't much of this night that I stay sober enough to articulate, but there is one thing that, no matter how much I drink, burns in my memory like a brand singed into whatever livestock most likely contributed to this drink. And her name is Rachel.


	2. To Hell With You and All Your Friends

**Please note that this chapter has a lot of important information that serves as a set up for many of the proceeding chapters. I hope you enjoy the world I am creating as well as the route I've decided to take with this story. I hope to gain even more readers as soon as possible, and I promise, this story is about to be bitchin!**

**Story Rating: M because it's awesome**

**Chapter Rating: T for language and mild inappropriate gestures (because let's face it, it's never any fun if they don't touch at least a little)**

**Disclaimer: Glee is not mine. The song, "Honey Let Me Sing You A Song" is not mine. So don't sue me for borrowing them!**

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><p><strong>To Hell with You and All Your Friends, It's on!<strong>

Girls are an easy thing to trip over if you aren't paying enough attention. There's really no good explanation as to why; mostly just a universal fact that's shaped the way the various worlds work today. Don't get me wrong, it's just as easy to fall in love with someone. However, it seems that more often we trip over all those people who fall. And since girls fall in love oh so easy, this is why it's easier to trip over one.

Now, my father's a complete ass. There isn't much I ever really learned from the guy about life, love, or personal relationships. I never even truly listened to anything he said. There are only two lessons he's taught me that I actually took into account. First off, he'd always say to me, "Quinn…you can't go shakin' the whore tree and expect an angel to fall out!" This has been proven to me several times over the course of my life in many of my varied relationships. I almost admire him for taking something so complex—that usually takes most people years to understand—and stating it so simply. It's one of the very few things he would ramble on about that ended up actually making some sense. So kudos to you, pops!

The second thing he used to tell me, that probably applies more to this situation, is, "Quinn! Don't EVER fall in love with a woman!" Now granted, when he said it he meant it in a more literal sense of the word than how I have come to apply it, but it's valid advice either way. Women _are_ dangerous; far more complex than the male species, and almost impossible to entirely figure out. I guess that's why I have such a weakness for them. I'm attracted to the dangers my father promised they'd bring.

My pops has a really old-world religious view that gives him this conservative nature that's almost non-existent today. Christianity was practically wiped out completely during the second crusades almost two thousand years ago. It's a wonder people even preach the ancient word. Not to mention, how the bible even survived through that period is still a huge mystery. They were thought to have all been burned by government officials for all the chaos and corruption they expounded across the universe. But, for whatever reason, the word survived and found its way into the hands of a believer. That's what they're called these days. I think our ancestors used to call them Christians? Christianity maybe? Now, they are just believers; of believer faith.

Believers of what exactly? God, various kinds of afterlife, sin, commandments; you name it, it's probably in that book somewhere—I'm sure. The Coalition, as you can guess, are not big fans of any law that's not their own, and this being so, specifically target the faith as an act of heresy against their government. And the believers…well, they're still waiting on that faithful day that their God will come and take them away from this universe. They believe they are being punished for our ancestors' past, and that once they suffer enough, they will be taken away to the land they deserve. It's such a quixotic ideal frame when you think about it. It seems like a simple way to answer questions that don't have one.

Honestly, I don't even think the Coalition has as much an issue with the belief itself as much as they do the extremist actions the believers take in order to get what they want. According to the scripture, they're encouraged to spread the word of their sacred text and give all creatures of this universe an opportunity to have what they do. They constantly rally and have services to teach others about their gospel. The word would spread like wild fire if it could, because it's filled with such fanciful stories that easily tug at human emotion, captivating them to its hopeful spirit.

So, much like the blacklisted planets, the Coalition only allows a very small, controlled group of people to form on an "uninhabited planet" while they affectively turn a blind eye. But you better believe, as soon as someone steps out of line, the Coalition rips them to shreds, sending their entire operation to shambles! They don't want a repeat of the second crusades. They don't want anything brewing beneath the surface of the blanket they've coated across a universe that they rule.

It's been this way for a few good millenniums, and I don't think the Coalition has any intention of changing it now. They've proven this time and again, especially on planets like where I'm from. And while I don't necessarily agree with most things "my father", it doesn't mean that every believer was like him or deserved the harsh things people have done to them over time. Believers lead such shitty lives; shittier than merchants even. Everyone hates them; thinks they're weird for blindly choosing to follow something that may or may not exist, and hasn't proven otherwise. All believers really want is hope—ANY scrap of hope they can find in this messed up existence—so that they can get through another day. Plus they have to fight everyone off constantly just to hold onto it. I've never understood how wanting to share that hope with anyone who seeks it would be considered rebellious or fraudulent. I think we could all use a little more.

While my father has been unsupportive, demanding, and messed up beyond repair as a parent in my life, I still honor the man for fighting for what he believes. I understand why he pushed the faith so hard on my family and me. It was hard enough trying to preach the word of a loathed religion; add the difficulty of bringing up children in a world that has very little of the same to offer and you almost have no choice but to strongly enforce it in the home. His intentions were good, though his methods were ill-considered and sometimes shady. And it's for this very reason that I at least consider taking partial scraps of his advice, if they're applicable. I figure, he's taken enough crap in his life from everybody else, he doesn't need more from me; this being the biggest reason we don't talk anymore. I know I'd give him hell if we tried, so it's safer not to even attempt. Then again, that could just be the Believer values that have been engrained into my very being from childhood. Ah, the practice of temperance.

I'll admit, while I've successfully practiced this value with my father, it hasn't promised well for me since my arrival to the planet Lima. My practice of Temperament has been temporarily misplaced and filled with a much deeper sense of greedy lust; furthermore, and very much in contradiction to the religion I stem from, I'm enjoying every minute I spend in the haughty sin. It's why I never really worked out as a believer. I'm too broken to value anything morally correct in the eyes of my father and the word he follows.

How, exactly, I've managed to completely disregard what little advice I've vowed to follow continues to baffle me. It's very out of my character to blatantly ignore that which I value so highly. I'm shamed by my actions. And It's not necessarily even the sinning I'm ashamed of, it's the fact that I'm leering off track into a life direction I've never really considered before. I don't trust people enough to keep them in my life—aside from Brittany, Santana, and Puck. But, then again, they are more like business partners, and our relationship still maintains a more professional edge. I'm chasing after something so incredulously, and I don't know what I want to do with it once I have it. I feel out of control—both emotionally and physically.

How I find myself at that bar night after night for the past two weeks stumps me even more! I tell Santana and Puck I go for the amazing alcohol, and I suppose it's believable enough a story. The alcohol on this planet never fails to disappoint like the others. They never complain, for the most part, but I'm beginning to think Santana finds my behavior oddly suspicious.

She has every right to. I _have_ been frequenting the place regularly enough for even the bartender to know my top five drink choices. And I have made an explicit point to talk to Rachel at least once each of these nights. Hell, I guess the bartender can even guess what I'm up to every time he slides me a drink and I almost miss it as I'm watching her raptly at the end of the bar.

She rarely ever talks back, but that has yet to stop me from trying. She could probably write a book about me had she been listening to my ramblings. Again, it's not like me to ramble; much less ramble about myself. I'm always very astute in my ability to remain a mystery. However, I've revealed more of myself to this stranger than Santana has managed to discover in the years' worth of working by my side.

Oddly enough, I feel safe telling Rachel these things about me. Maybe it's because she doesn't even acknowledge my existence as I ramble and this gives me the allusion that I'm talking to someone who won't ever analyze or judge. I do feel relieved after I talk, because I say things I didn't even realize have bugged me for years.

Or maybe I do it because I'm hoping to reveal something about myself that will shock her enough she'll have no choice but to respond. I'd like to think I'm not that desperate, but I have been surprising myself lately with how little I actually knew about myself; it really shouldn't surprise me any further if that is, indeed, the reason.

The only consistency she shows—aside from ignoring me—is the routine way in which every conversation ends. After about an hour of me rambling, she'll thank the bartender, gently cup a hand to close my jaw, and then walk away, quietly, not to be seen again until the next night. A lovely ritual between the two of us that always leaves me floundered and the bartender sorrowful. On a good note, I've gotten more free drinks than I can count now. He never fails to slip me something for my efforts, and compliment me on my progress. But, on the downside, I've only grown all the more persistent with every let down.

I refuse to answer any question as to _what _it is I'm feeling for her, aside from pure lust; just as I refuse to answer why I feel it so intensely. The only thing I'm sure of is that I will not be wholly satisfied until the itch that is Rachel Berry finally gets scratched. And that was no different this evening.

It had been another long, rather successful day spent tinkering with the engine. Such a successful day, in fact, we felt confident we'd be able to leave soon. This was an update that should have me leaping for joy; my golden ticket to the next flight out of here. This news only partially pleased me though. Only because a certain brunette plagued my mind with her cherry red finger nails and ridiculously short skirts.

Tonight I am on a particularly pursuant mission to gain her attention. Knowing that I may be leaving soon has made me more aggressive than any of the other nights. I fear that she senses it—mostly in the intense eye contact I trap her in while she performs—because afterwards she doesn't take her usual place at the bar. I don't want to ruin my chances, and I know with the intensity I've already laid on pretty thick, it's possible that I very well may do just that, but I can't help it.

I know she's still here! I can smell her in the air! I bought this high-tech black-market smell enhancer specifically for these purposes—for the thrill of the hunt. I know, it seems like a lame thing for a person like me to buy, but I assure you they are more useful than one would originally think. Enhanced vision or hearing is so overrated! In my experience, the first thing you notice about the enemy, anyone really, is their scent. It's almost always unique to the individual, as well as the easiest to differentiate and remember!

It gives a hunter senses like that of a bear or a shark, being able to identify things from miles away and use it to their advantage to track it—to capture it before it even knows you're on its trail. Mine is very much prosthetic, though; I control whether I want to use it in the moment or not. It's turned on now, and I've come to know her scent very well. I'm not sure of her exact location, but I know she's close by and most likely watching me from wherever she sits.

I know she knows I'm here. And I know she knows I'm here for her! I've been coming nightly for the past two weeks just for her. I've made a point to find a way to talk to her at least once at some point throughout the evening. Like I stated before, my intentions are quite obvious. I finally find her sitting in a booth by the stage. I don't think anything of her change in game plan and immediately make my way towards her table, turning up the charm as I approach.

With the most enchanting smile I can muster, I lean in close, "Go on, don't be shy princess. Ask me out."

"Okay, get out," she says sternly and without any hesitation.

"Finally! I got you to talk to me! For a minute there I was beginning to think you were mute."

"If I were mute, I wouldn't be able to sing you idiot," she responds coldly.

"Mind if I join this tea party?" I say casually, not bothering to wait for a reply before I plop down in the booth across from her.

She sneers in lieu of my forwardness.

"God I love it when you talk dirty to me," I say sarcastically to break the impending silence, resting my chin atop my propped up fists, "When are you gonna give up this charade and just go out with me already?"

"How about never? Is never good enough for you?"

"Look here princess!" I say, slamming my fists on the table in aggravation, "I don't know what your problem is, and I'll even bet it's probably hard to pronounce, but you seriously need to cut the bullshit!"

"What makes you so sure Captain Fabray? Where exactly are you pulling all this confidence from? Did you ever stop to think that maybe I'm just NOT into you!" she finally snaps, putting more fire behind her words than I knew she was capable of. I slink back into myself, suddenly very self-conscious. All that previously mislaid embarrassment suddenly catches up to me full speed.

"I-I... I honestly don't know."

"I mean seriously! What makes you think a person like you even has a shot with a girl like me anyways!" I feel the sting in her words. And judging by the self-satisfied grin slipping to her lips, I'd guess she'd intended it to affect me so. Aggravation rapidly seethes within me. My ears burn as a result of my temper, as if I were a volcano on the brink of spewing lava-like contents.

"How can you sit there and say something like that! What, do you think that I'm some kind of vulture or something, picking the flesh from any scrap I can find!"

"Oh don't be silly. I don't consider you a vulture… I consider you something a vulture would eat!"

"Seriously Rachel? After everything that I've told you about myself, every door that I've opened to you and you want to throw THAT in my face!"

"Your stories make you sound like a Heretic anyways...with your rebellious mannerisms, and scrappy clothes!"

All at once, the bickering stops, and I fall silent to her most recent accusation. I want to gather my thoughts enough to think of a good insult to throw back, yet my mind's void of a decent quip. I'm usually better when Santana and I play this game. I don't know why I'm losing so badly right now to Rachel. Her jaw falls open and a loud gasp draws me from my ponderings.

"Oh my god! You ARE a Heretic!" she screeches in a pitch I've never heard her reach before. And this is the first time I sense any type of sincerity from the girl.

She seems genuinely outraged by this fact. As if she had been confident that she did, in fact, know every little thing about me, and was just hit with something new that greatly repulses her. No doubt she has every right to be disgusted. Heretics are generally loathed people. They are just as dangerous as someone of my plight only they dedicate their lives and savaging to the overthrow of the Coalition. I've met a few in my day. I've even been offered a position on a few Heretic crews, but it's never really been the life for me. I don't care about government at all. Especially not enough to fight one anymore than I already have to.

Even if I were one, the fact that she's speaking so loudly and openly about Heretics is cause enough for trouble. The Coalition rightfully hates anyone partaking in Heretic revolt. They don't like people to say the name in public. They've made sure to pin those loyal to them against the self-righteous group. On the blacklisted planets, a bar fight usually starts as soon as the word is even uttered. By instinct, I look around casually to assess whether or not anyone heard the exclamation, now. Just because I'm safe and sound on the merchant planet of Lima, doesn't mean people here will take it any more lightly.

Most planets hand out an even worse punishment to those accused of Hereticy than piracy. That's how much hatred they have for the rebels. This planet would certainly take worse to my being a Heretic than the pirate that I am. I wouldn't put it past them to torture me near death before handing me over to the Coalition to finish me off even slower; whereas if they knew me to be a pirate instead, I would probably just be arrested. I can already see eyes around the bar staring me down after having heard her claim. It's wisest to not let this conversation go any further than it already has. I clap a hand to her mouth swiftly from across the table and she mumbles muffled curses incomprehensibly into it.

"Sadly, I am not... Though, I might seriously consider becoming one if it means I'll get this reaction from you every time!" My cockiness is not taken lightly. Though she finally relaxes enough for me to trust she won't say anything more, she is still visibly wary of my exuberances. I keep my hand over her mouth to finish speaking. "No, I'm much worse... And that, my lovely, is a promise."

I'm leaning across the table and my words break apart in my mouth as I speak them. I can't help it; because, amid Rachel's usual scent of vanilla and honey, there's a fragrant, more prominent smell lingering beneath. It's a bouquet of arousal. I've smelled it many times, and with these smell enhancers it's overwhelmingly sucking up all air in my lungs. This new scent is so heavenly in its aroma; I'm forced to turn off my smell sensors just to maintain any form of levelheadedness I may possess around this girl. But even when they are off, her scent is forever burned into my memory, haunting my every turn.

By this time, my reaction must be perceptibly written across my face—my eyes wide and dark with want; my muscles stiff and twitching beneath my skin; my nostrils flailing wildly to capture as much as possible of that glorious scent. She's looking at me in confusion; as if no one has ever looked at her with such animalistic want before and it fascinates her. I feel like I'm a science project on display for her to study and observe. It's making me all the more uncomfortable in her presence.

"You're making my tummy flutter again... and it's kinda uncomfortable," I sputter out awkwardly. I've lost my smooth edge and it's a matter of minutes before I start stumbling over more words.

I don't take the time to find out, however. I'm tired of her seeing me this way—a bumbling idiot, falling and gushing all over her. I'm tired of feeling this way. I stand up from the booth and look to her before I leave as if to say something.

Still, I'm at a loss for words. Instead I shift my feet awkwardly searching for my next move. The way I'm acting around her has me feeling vulnerable again. Her big doe eyes look right through me, penetrating my soul with their curious gaze. She's searching for something in me, and I can't figure out what. It only leaves me feeling stripped bare, like I'm naked before a crowd of prisoners. I fight the subconscious urge to raise my arms across my chest as a barrier to the penetrating exposure of her gaze.

Eventually it becomes too much for me. I feel crushed beneath her wandering eyes and no longer enjoy her excess attention. She was seeing things I never intended to show. I had to get away before I so willingly gave too much in offering to her. Because then, what would be left of me?

So, I turn around and walk off.

"Aw, do you have to leave so soon? I was just about to poison the tea."

I don't answer her; only will my legs to move faster towards the exit of the bar. I don't understand why, but her final words somehow leave my heart feeling heavy and tight in my chest. I have to visibly hold my hand there to sooth the dull ache of the pang. It's all I have left to hold onto as I leave her behind.

Minutes later I find myself in cargo bay 27, back at the _Trinity_. She's as empty as I believe my heart to be, and I remember it's because I left Santana, Puck, and Brittany at the bar. There's enough alcohol in my system to void out the needless worry though.

I jump down through the hull, into the engine bay, ensuring my feet hit hard against the metal floors beneath me. It always soothes my soul to hear the clang of metal reverberating through the ship's walls. It reminds me of the safety and security I have behind its barriers.

I shuffle restlessly over to the engine that has taken the past couple of weeks to fix. It's looking good. It's looking real good, actually, and I think about how easy it will be to add the finishing touches. It wouldn't surprise me if we were gone tomorrow.

My body involuntarily drops down next to the engine and I cradle my head in my hands in poor attempt to soothe the dizziness that is soon taking over. The slight buzz from the alcohol has finally taken its toll, and now I'm headed down the path of pure drowsiness.

I can feel the beat of my heart pulse rhythmically through my palms against my forehead. My foot subconsciously begins to tap in time. Then, shortly after, an old melody I used to know plays in my mind.

_That's it! _Straight away, I snap up in thought. My excitement sends me stumbling out the door, and I almost leave behind the most important device needed for my sudden idea... my guitar.

It's a warm yet dry night on the planet Lima, and the dehydration from my earlier drinking has me parched to no end. I won't stop walking though. Where exactly am I going? To be completely honest, I haven't a clue…as far as which direction I'm headed. I'm headed to wherever _she_ may be.

I have my smell enhancers turned on though, and they easily pick up her scent. At first it is faint as it fluffs about the air, but the further I follow, the stronger it grows.

It's the oddest hunting excursion I've ever been on. Typically, a hunter would stalk prey with precision, using pure skill set as their guide. My hunt for Rachel is entirely driven by wantonness with unadulterated desire in control of my every step. This automatically makes what I'm doing extraordinarily dangerous. _That _only makes me want it all the more.

I stalk through the night, guitar on my back, and follow her heavenly sent until I come upon an old house. It slouches wearily into its foundation, showing its age. The decorations on the outside are delicately placed as if the owners were trying to make up for its homely state. Only one light is on in the upper right level of the home. It looks like it's winking at me, as if to say, "Go get em' tiger! You've got this!"

The only light shining is obviously coming from Rachel's room, or if not hers personally at least some room she is in. Her scent is very strong around me now, signifying she is close. Faint singing can be heard in the background, and the sound's recognizably hers. I only have to take a few steps closer to see her outline through the open window. She's pulling her hair down from the bun that neatly sat atop her head.

I flip my guitar over my shoulder and lightly strum a few strings to assure it's tuned. The notes ring out loud enough to stop her in her singing. Her shadow freezes up at the sound as if she were searching for device that made it. _This is it._ I think to myself, _it's now, or never._ My hand shakes non-stop as I strum the first few chords of the song.

_Maybe I'm blind, maybe I'm blind_

_Oh I couldn't see you shine_

_And shimmer right in front of my eyes_

_Front of my eyes, oh no_

She rushes to the window as soon as it's clear the noise she's heard is coming from outside. Her eyes are the first thing I see through the darkness of the night. The street lamp behind me lights them to the perfect shade of rich coffee brown, forming a twinkle down in my direction. Her posture is slightly rigid with confusion as she leans upon her windowsill, but the look showered upon me shows no signs of hostility, and so I feel okay about continuing.

_Honey let me sing you a song_

_And listen to my words as they come out wrong_

_But don't run away, run away this time_

My hands beat hard against the guitar. I want her to hear every word; to feel the hum of every chord as I play them harder with each progression. I fight the blackness of the night to be louder for her, worried that it's sucking away the powerful notes before they can reach her ears.

_Honey let me look in your eyes_

_You open them one at a time_

_But don't look away, look away this time_

Her eyes close, and it looks as if she's fighting the urge to turn her head away in any direction that is not directly facing me. There's a sense of hesitation in the way she crosses her arms across her chest, but a sense of peacefulness as she rests her head on the side of the window and she seems so conflicted in her emotions that I almost don't want to keep going. I am equally saddened by the way she looks right now. How it openly conveys her every feeling. Obligingly, my fingers begin to pick lightly at the strings, afraid to play with as much passion as before, as if her seemingly fragile state will effortlessly shatter at the intensity. The notes are so soft and delicately played that it's a wonder if she can even hear them anymore.

_Open your mind, open your mind_

_And let your beauty flow like wine_

_But please don't leave me,_

_Don't leave me outside, leave me outside, oh no_

She notices that I'm significantly holding back as I play to her. And she seems distressed by the loss of flowing melodies that once drowned her in life. A smile steals my lips as I watch her lean forward on her balcony, desperately seeking to feel those notes again as I pounded them out to her. I feel like I'm on a roller coaster of emotions with the biggest hills being between my confidence level and self-consciousness, sending me swirling out of control. But that power she seeks to hear once more boils within me, slowly growing in strength down the tips of my fingers and rumbling through the steel of the guitar strings.

_And honey I'll try, honey I'll try _

_To hold you like the starriest skies_

_We lie beneath tonight_

_And you shine, you shine so much brighter, oh_

The faintest smile I've ever seen ghosts her lips as a rosy, burning blush lights her face to a fiery glow. I feel myself stepping closer to where she rests at the window. My guitar is being nearly beaten to death in my arms. It whines and cries out pleasantly in tune with my voice. My nose becomes maddened with the scent of her arousal and a smell that is uniquely Rachel, stronger than I've ever sensed before, making my knees grow weak as I struggle to finish the song.

The last few chords echo into the night. My breaths come in rampant strides as my singing discontinues. But I know I'm not breathing this heavy for necessity. I'm desperate to breathe in as much of her lingering scent as physically possible. There is only the slightest moment in which I think I may need to lay off a bit and turn down my smell receptors, but that moment comes and goes as fleetingly as the rapid beats pounding in my chest. The sound of it grows so loud in my ears that I am now deaf to anything other than the beating of my heart.

I feel like we've stared at each other for hours with our equally flushed faces and glassy eyes. I want so much more than that right now—so much more of her right now—that I'm locked in a state of temporary paralysis.

She offers me no sign of approval—other than the overwhelming scent of her most sexual desires and, while they smell as heavenly as the sweetest flower, I cannot move. I wait firmly in my place until instructed further. All it would take is the batting of an eyelash; a convoluted smile; even the simplest of gestures would do, one where she slowly curls her index finger back and forth before her in a motion that will eventually pull me into her by the invisible string it produces around me.

But she does none of these things. She just stands there and stares, much like I'm doing to her. I stand here, facing my most primal pirating urges; to take what I feel is mine without regret and with extreme resolve. All while she stands in the window above me, emotionlessly, representing the one thing I cannot reach. She is the one thing I dare not selfishly plunder.

It scares me the longer I hesitate. Just the simple fact that she is still standing there, remaining open to me, emitting the most mouthwatering scent meant for my nose only, should be enough to send me scaling up that tree in time to leap at her through the open window.

Standing before her now, I am no longer a pirate. I am no longer a criminal. I am nothing more than a normal, everyday woman. Void of all my deceitful knowledge and coy words. Stripped bare of physical agility and strength; no longer accustomed to the feeling of bravery nor fortitude. Just a plain Jane girl. And this is all I have to offer her?

I turn away in shame; mostly shame in myself for being so sudden in my apprehension. For once in my life, I do not feel the need to take what I want the most. I don't want to take anything from this girl at all. She is too pure—too innocent by my standards, that it would be unfair if I did. Surely a pirate should not care about what is fair, but in the midst of self-loathing, the thought of deliberately ruining something as beautiful as she is, easily justify the means. I'm a pirate, not a psychopath. Natural beauty deserves to live peacefully more so than anything in this entire universe. And I would never be caught dead destroying what very little still exists today.

I allow myself one last glance back, before walking away. To capture her refined features in my mind's eye for the long trip ahead of me. Her face is unnerved. She leans forward hesitantly like she wants nothing more than to chase after me and wrap me in a tight hug. The last thing I see through the darkness are her eyes. They glisten with the promise of tears, calling out to me from their unwavering place behind a closing window.

* * *

><p>The walk back to the ship seems longer than before. My feet shuffle sadly against the dirt road beneath them, swirling up copious amounts of dust in the process. And while it actively irritates me to no end, clogging my nose and scratching at my throat, I don't stop. I deserve this. What I'm feeling on the inside weighs so heavy on my heart that I wish to project it to the outside instead. I have been stabbed in as many body parts as you can name; I've braved through broken bones and dislocated joints. But this…this thing I feel growing inside me is far worse than I am able to take.<p>

So I trudge about empty and defeated. All of a sudden, a strange odor brings my receptors to life. I stop in my tracks to get a better scent, but all I can gather is the very mild stench of fusty wet dog. Instinct tells me to remain very cautious the rest of the trip home and stay hidden from direct light. I slide my night vision goggles down from my head to cover my eyes, and then slip into the shadiest corridors offered by the night sky.

The scent is only vaguely familiar to me, but I'm sure I don't want to stick around to find out why and continue quickly on my way. It dissipates as I travel away from it, and any brief worry I felt stays behind along with it. It was probably just some stray pack of mutts searching the streets for scraps of thrown away chicken bone.

"Where the hell have you been!" Santana shrieks as I barely make it through into the cockpit of the _Trinity_.

"Nowhere San, I was just out okay?" She glares in a way that only Santana really could, not buying the diluted bullshit I had bothered to even try selling her. She doesn't even have to say anything to get me to see that. Her arms snap to her hips, and her foot begins tapping angrily against the floor. I cannot call the look that now overtakes the Latina's face a scowl, because that would be taking it too lightly. It was more of a full on death glare, and buddy, she had it aimed high my way. Looks like these easily crack me like an egg. I spill my guts across the floor before her wildly tapping foot.

"I went to Rachel's tonight to see her off before I go, and to maybe see if I could finally get her out of my system before we do!"

"Next time, warn a sister Q! You wanna play captain, then you can't just go and disappear whenever you damn well please and not tell your crew what's up!" She rants in her normal, temperamental style. It's expected of her. I could see this one coming from a mile away, but I still flinch as her finger pokes across my chest.

"I'm sorry San—guys…it won't happen again." It's a pathetic excuse for an apology, I admit, but I don't really have the emotional strength to give them any more than that right now.

"Yeah you're sorry! Ay dios mio! You know Quinn, had you not lolly-gagged about looking for some bimbo that doesn't even want to put out, you would have realized that we are in deep shit right now and need to get the fuck off this planet as soon as possible!" She starts pacing back and forth across the cockpit, pulling at her hair in frustration.

Brittany grabs her shoulders and eases her gently into one of the seats while puck watches indifferently from the corner. While I understand that Santana's frenzied state is due to boiling rage as opposed to anxiety, I can't help but be alarmed by the news and the manic way in which she delivers it. What exactly happened after I left? Why would we be in as much trouble as each one of them undoubtedly plays off?

"Do you remember the airman that granted us access the day we docked? Well, we ran into him tonight back at the bar. He seemed kinda angry and started talking about how he has us all figured out," Brittany answers as soothingly as possible to lessen the tension in the room. She has always had this amazing sense of intuition towards inner thoughts and feelings. It amazes me every time she answers the questions running wildly through my head. Once it's clear that Santana has settled down enough the blond continues speaking, "Well, long story short, he's very capricious of us and wants to conduct a second screening of the ship first thing tomorrow morning."

No one thinks to correct her error in word usage. The revelation that we may be found out and captured hasn't quite settled in, like it should. Regardless of whether or not he's suspicious, capricious, or any variation of words in-between, he's going to thoroughly rescreen the ship, and most likely won't miss anything this time around. Santana's right, we've got to get the hell out of here and fast!

I don't hesitate this time. I go into immediate captain mode and bark orders at my crew like no tomorrow. They scurry about pressing nobs and pulling levers, bringing the ship back to life from the deep sleep it's been immersed in for weeks now. And right before she is at full power I smell it again—that same wet dog smell from earlier on my walk home. Only this time it is more pungent and I get the biggest whiff as it rushes by.

"Wait…Santana, Puck….you smell that?" I ask curiously. They don't have special receptors like I do, and it's become a good way to test whether or not what I sense is of legitimate concern or not.

"No….but whatever it is…it wasn't me," Puck responds with a self-satisfied grin. Santana slaps him across the back of the head before shaking her head no as well.

Then it hits me like a brick shithouse. I know exactly what that smell is.

"Demagogues." I say out loud for everyone to hear.

They are the official army of the Coalition and so much more brutal than any criminal I've ever met. It's not unusual for them to drop by unannounced and pillage across whatever planet they so please. Actually, it's encouraged; especially to little merchant planets like Lima, that the Coalition wants under their thumb at all times. So what do they want?

"Damn! That punk-ass air control cunt must've called in back-up…how close are they?" Santana asks, jumping in place on the co-pilot seat beside me.

"I don't know…not too close though…I wanna say three, maybe four miles out," I answer instantly. I begin clicking away at the controls in front of me before what I've just said runs through my mind again. Something's not right about the distance I revealed and it gnaws at me to stop everything I'm doing until I figure out whatever it is. My heart feels heavy. Why does my heart feel—?

"Oh my God! Rachel!" I scream out at myself in apprehension. I briskly jump up from my seat and head back towards the door.

"What the fuck Q? Have you lost your Goddamn mind!" Santana yells after me. She turns around in her seat and watches in confusion.

"Earlier—the walk back—headed—towards her house—she's in trouble—have to go—no time to explain San, just wait up for a second!" I stutter as I struggle to put on my jacket and fidget with the straps to a dingy old helmet. I could barely make sense of everything myself; much less give an explanation to Santana. Right now I was acting on pure adrenaline, and instinct told me to jump on one of our hover-bikes and find Rachel.

"Hold up Fabray! We've gotta go! Like now! Find another girl-toy to get all romantic-novel cutesy with later…when we are safe and sound, far away from this hellhole!" She calls out to me angrily.

I don't stop to listen to her insulting rants. I, again, am short of time. Seriously, there has got to be a way to get some more of that somewhere, ugh!

I'm in the cargo bay, revving the engine on my hover-bike as Santana continues yelling at me from the doorway. I pull out loudly making sure to yell above the roar of the engine; "Just wait up for a minute San!" Then I race off into the night.

The ride is short and dusty as I push the bike to its highest mileage. I am going so fast, I could have easily zipped by you on the street and you'd have never have even known I was there. But I was on a mission, and couldn't so much as bring myself to enjoy the thrill speeding gave me.

I follow the smell—that fowl, musty dog smell—until it leads me right to the place I had suspected it would. I wince internally at being right. The one time I don't want to be, and of course, it would be true. I'm careful about being seen. I'm still determined to see what's left of Rachel, or if they've even got her, but my wariness about being captured leaves me as invisible as prey in the night.

I pull up and kill the engine behind a large tree near her house. I can see the light still shining, from what I assume is her bedroom. It illuminates the area around it, and I immediately throw it out as an entry option. I don't have much to work with, seeing as the whole house is practically covered by the light radiating from the street lamps. I settle on breaking in through a back window.

If I enter through the downstairs window, I would be easily wasting my time fumbling through the darkness of her house to find stairs, so I climb up the gutters of the house to a second floor window. A tree blocks me on either side and I am imperceptibly silent as I climb the building. The demagogue scent is still strong around me, but it doesn't seem as if they are inside the house yet. It almost feels like they are waiting—surrounding the house and watching for something to happen.

The concern doesn't stay with me for long, because soon I'm breaking the window and climbing into her house. It's still very dark, so I rely on both my night vision goggles and innate sense of smell to guide me to Rachel.

This is easy at first. I know her scent so well by now, it overpowers the stench of the demagogues. But then, an unusual scent hits the air that is neither Rachel nor Demagogue. Having been in a few tiffs with them before, I know they've probably just started gassing the place with some type of poisonous substance. Luckily for me, I have the ability to turn my nose receptors extremely low, to a state of almost not breathing. The perks of letting an unlicensed felon surgically implant smell enhancers into your nasal cavity.

I know Rachel won't be so lucky. And it's now become more difficult to find her with the loss of one of my best senses. The crash of a glass-like substance rings through the air, and sends me on my toes in the direction of light—the only light I remember being on in Rachel's house.

"Rachel? Are you in here?" I call inaudibly as I enter into the light-filled room. I hurry to find her.

While I'm not directly breathing in large amounts of the dangerous fumes floating throughout the air, there is no way to completely filter out small amounts from entering my shortened airways. I'm at just as much risk the longer I breathe in the toxins.

Suddenly there's a cough from the other side of the bed that startles me. It's small and dainty, sounding exactly like a cough I would expect the girl to make. So I rush to the other side to find her. She lays there helplessly. Her eyes fade in and out of consciousness. It's only a matter of minutes before that gas will knock her out completely.

"Rachel? Rachel can you hear me? Come on, stay with me beautiful," I chant repeatedly, grabbing her cheeks and moving her head with rapid little shakes. A few lazy blinks signal that she's fighting to adhere to my instructions. I look around me, sensing the demagogues approaching nearer. I have to get us out of here and fast, but I don't think the poor girl can hold herself up, much less walk.

"Okay sweetheart, I'm going to pick you up now and get you out of here. Nod once if that's okay? Can you do that for me princess?" She nods weakly. I bend forward and wrap my arms around her small frame. The very few breaths she has left come out softly against the nape of my neck. Then she abruptly takes a deep breath inwards.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm…."She moans out throatily, it seems a highly unusual action for someone being slowly choked to death by gas, "You smell like pineapples and sugar cookies." The rest is mumbled out quietly against her place at my neck.

She's still breathing me in, letting out silent whimpers of approval, and then I smell it. Her arousal building in the air once more. Even though my nose receptors have been turned very low, that wondrous smell lingers between us, and I think about just how turned on she would have to be for it to still be as strong in my limited sense of smell.

_God, Rachel, this is no time to be sexually charged! This is no time to get ME turned on simply because you are! _I think to myself as I lift her from the ground.

She lets out a guttural moan at the contact of my shoulder to her center, and it makes me slightly regret the decision to carry her out this way. I'm torn between my desire and my intuition.

I've never been turned on in the throes of danger like I am now. It's thrilling amongst the ambiguity of it all. At the same time, I am more scared than usual because I can't use my best sense to determine when a demagogue is approaching. I know they'll eventually infiltrate the home.

I press on, with Rachel thrown across my shoulder, to the window I came in through. I feel mild delirium settling in my mind, and I can't tell if it's because of how close Rachel is to my face or if the gas is finally beginning to have an effect on me. I hope it's neither. I don't like the feeling either way.

There are shadows fading in and out around us as I make my way to the window. I hate being down my best hunting tool. A low snarl passes by my left ear. The owner of that snarl lunges at me from the same side. However, he misjudges my reaction-time. Before he can even touch me, I pull my trusty field knife from a hidden jacket pocket and jab it straight through his jugular.

I can only rely on my horrible sense of hearing and the advantage I'm given with my night vision goggles. I pull the knife from the first demagogue's neck and spin the blade with my one free hand before sending it into the stomach of a second one behind me. Rachel laughs hysterically on my shoulder. Though I'm not quite sure what she finds so funny. I make no real effort to silence her, for they already know we're here.

I get to the window and set her on the sill so I can better plan how to get us both down safely. There are numerous loud crashes erupting behind me and Rachel only laughs harder at their sound. I make my decision hastily.

"Rachel, I'm going to carry you down now okay? Put your arms around my neck and hold on tight!" I say before turning my back to her and grabbing her arms up to wrap around my neck. She clings tightly, at least as tight as her drug-induced state will allow. I loop two bungee cords I find in my pack around her and clip them to my jacket for added safety. Then, I hop on the window sill and grab hold of the gutter.

The weight is too much for the flimsy pipe. It squeaks beneath me and threatens to collapse at any moment. With just me it could manage, but the added dead weight of Rachel makes it wobble uncontrollably in my grasp. I allow myself to partially slide down so I can reach the ground quicker. But before we can make it, the gutter pops off the side of the wall.

We both fall to the ground with a grunt. It wasn't too bad a fall, maybe three feet or so, but my body aches miserably with Rachel's body weight on top of mine. She looks into my eyes and bursts into laughter for the umpteenth time this night. I'm honestly starting to lose count now.

This is well and good and all, but we are still in present danger. The situation is becoming less and less funny with every minute we spend absent of movement. I have yet to find any humor in the situation at all. I roll her off me and once again sling her over my shoulder like a rag doll. A pain shoots throughout my ankle, and I'm sure at least one bone is fractured. This night just might be the final death of me.

The girl's antics are beginning to play on my nerves as I fight to keep us alive. She pokes and prods me with incomprehensible giggles in-between. I'm relieved when we finally get to my bike because that means I will soon be off my damaged leg.

I sit her down on the seat, and securely buckle her into my helmet, not even caring that it's the only one I have. I hop on in front of her and rev the engine, making more of a scene than perhaps I should; calling out to those monsters to try me now that I have the power of speed. The bike gives a slight jerk forward and she instinctively secures both arms around my waist. She isn't going anywhere though. We're still bungeed together. Well, that and one of my hands thoughtlessly locks around the two she holds at my chest. I take off leaving a cloud of dust and smoke in enemy faces.

Once again, I fly through the city at full speed. I know the demagogues will track me, but I'm hoping that at least I'll have a good enough head start. The fact that I can't even make out the shapes of the buildings as they pass us by gives me the feeling we do. Rachel's head rests on my back, and her arms cling tightly around my waist the whole way back to the ship.

So much so, I have trouble prying them off me when we finally pull back into the cargo bay. I never thought about the fact that she's probably never ridden on one of these before. At least the fresh air and adrenaline brought her back to a few of her senses.

She stumbles when I pull her off the bike and I swiftly catch her in my arms before she falls to the ground completely. While she may be feeling a little bit more like herself, she still has a few more hours before she'll be fully functional. I make to throw her over my shoulder again, but think better of it before I do. I don't think I can handle another situation like that again. Not without doing something about it at least.

So, leaving one hand at her back and slipping the other down behind her knees, I stand up straight, cradling her to the air in my arms.

"Weeeeeeee!" she chants, giggling like a little girl. I want to be agitated with her for acting so childishly, but I can't. Her arms are loosely draped about my neck and her feet dangle carelessly over my forearm. Not to mention she's grinning wildly, with those same droopy eyes as before. It's too adorable a moment to pass up. Besides, she probably won't even remember this when she wakes up. I should enjoy this side of her while I have it.

I walk her to my chambers and lay her on my bed. I don't really have anywhere else to put her otherwise. I figure she'll be fine here until she gets some rest. We can sort out the details later. The point is she's safe now. Well, safer. We still need to get the hell off this planet and as far into space as we possibly can. But I want just one last look at her angelic face before I go off into pilot mode again. Sleep overwhelms her tiny body. Drool trickles down her chin onto my pillow. _This _is insanely adorable. I tuck a stray hair behind her ear and she cuddles into my touch.

"What the fuck is that Fabray!" Santana screams from my doorway.

"Can it Santana, you'll wake her!" I holler back in a whispered tone.

I grab Santana by the jacket and pull her back to the cockpit. I push her down in her seat and take my place in the captain's chair beside her. She still stares me down in shock at what I'd done and what I'm not telling her. But I'm done with this charade. I pull the throttle and grab the wheel as the ship roars to life.

"What are we waiting for? Let's get this bird back in the air! Let's get the fuck off Lima!"


	3. Feel It Out for Once and Feel Nothing Li

**Okay...so, I realize that everyone may hate me because it took me so long to get this posted, but please allow me to explain myself lol. I felt like my writing style needed a little something different. So I worked extra hard on this chapter in order to create something that would keep readers interested, and this is how I did it:**

**1) This chapter is written to cover a longer time span, and this is conveyed through daily drabbles.**

**2) This chapter is kinda like a treasure hunt lol. I hid a deep dark secret somewhere in this chapter. Can you find it?**

**3) There are bunches of literary symbolism and rich concepts to look out for. They could be important later down the road.**

**Story Rating: M because it's awesome**

**Chapter Rating: T for language, and I never can resist throwing a little flirty fluff in there somewhere**

**Disclaimer: As always, Glee and it's characters are not mine.**

**If you have any questions or comments, feel free to contact me. I am ALWAYS open to suggestions. Enjoy :)**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: <strong>**(Feel It Out for Once and Feel Nothing Like Everyone Else)**

"You kidnapped her Q! I'd say that's a pretty big fucking deal!"

We've been at it for hours now.

I've heard Santana say this exact sentence thirty-three times within the last hour alone. I'm not sure how much longer we can keep this up, but I _am_ sure that Brittany and Puck are tired of being dragged into it.

"Come on San! Kidnapping is such a strong word…I prefer the term 'surprise adoption.'"

She doesn't find this response amusing. She doesn't find anything about this predicament amusing actually. She hovers over me, flailing her arms about, yelling out long strings of sentences in her mother tongue, that I'm sure border profane. It's the kind of response I would expect from her. There isn't a decision I've made thus far that hasn't ended in one of her classic raving speeches.

"Well whatever you call it, it's some fucked up shit Fabray! There is so much wrong with this situation it's not even funny!"

"Oh, please enlighten me…" I don't think it helps that I enjoy egging the sour Latina on so much. Her face visibly reddens through the many shades of red.

Then she starts out on one of the longest rants I've heard from her in a long time. Something about the shortage of food, and the huge amounts of trouble we've caused ourselves if the Coalition finds out about this. I don't know, I'm not really paying attention.

I'm far more fascinated by my assault knife that's being weaved expertly through my fingers. The feel of the cool steel blade as it grazes across every other knuckle sends chills down my spine. Chills that remind me of Rachel; I've yet to feel any as strongly as the ones she's given me. It's true, the chills that overtake me now suffer in comparison, but I find myself obsessively seeking out this familiar feeling in the coolness of the blade.

Santana's voice grows louder the longer I don't listen. To me, it sounds more of an annoying muffled drone in the background of my thoughts. Apparently she senses this, because the steam that starts shooting from her ears is almost non-metaphorical in its existence.

I can't help but flinch when she lunges at me and jerks the knife from my hand. The lethal whiz it makes as it's pitched past my face puts me on edge even more, and I wince the moment it sticks into the wooden head of the old-world artifact we had stolen a few years back.

"Calm the fuck down Santana! You're gonna wake up Rachel!" I call out above her nonsense. It seems to effectively break her of her rant—or at least the one she had started on earlier.

"I honestly don't give a fuck if I do wake up sleeping beauty! I hope she hears every Goddamn word I've got to say, because dammit Q, she is causing way more problems than I can even list and I'm done—"

Santana's current speech fades away when a loud screech emanates from the direction of my bunk—where we had last left Rachel. We all hear it, clear as a bell, and jump up to find the cause of the sudden distressful call.

I key in my passcode to unlock the door and as it slides open a petite body charges at me with full force. The girl's strength had been severely underestimated. She has me laid out on the floor beneath her body-weight within seconds. Her speed too has been equally disvalued, because before I can even find her face in the wild disarray of hair, she's leaping off me and running in search of any exit she can find.

"Grab her! Hurry, Grab her Puck!" I exclaim from my place on the floor. I'm still shell-shocked by the initial attack, and find it harder and harder to get up with every passing moment.

Finally, after what seems like hours of unsuccessful attempts, Puck catches a hold of her, throwing her over his shoulder and bringing her back into the room. I make sure to shut and lock the door securely behind us, just in case she's feeling brave enough to try any more of her escape stunts.

So, we all sit there in silence. Rachel lies across my bunk with her back facing everyone in the room. I take place across a backwards chair before her, letting my arms hang over the back and propping my chin peacefully upon the top rail. Santana scowls in one corner of the room and Brittany sits next to her, stroking her back lovingly. Puck stands by my side, twitching with every move Rachel makes, fearful that she may run for it again.

This should officially be deemed our very first family portrait. And what a lovely picture it makes among the angst and confusion dangling throughout the air. It's obvious we all need a minute of silence to collect ourselves before round two, and I don't hesitate to give it.

"Look, due to some unfortunate events, you're now in our captivity until further notice. I know it's probably a little scary for you, and you'd like more information than this, but as of now, that is all I'm authorized to tell you," I say and again, silence, like a compress, comes to heal the blows of sound.

Bitterness creeps into her face. Her dusky cheeks burn like the rare poppy. Her fingers knot in her lap like a cord, until they turn white hot with the resentment they undoubtedly seek to hold tight to. Such silly displays of cheap animosity make me laugh. Assuredly, I do; though I suck it deep into my throat to hide it from everyone else in the room. While it may be a laughable matter, that's no reason to intentionally anger her further.

Just as the silence begins to agitate me, a sad inquiry suddenly seems to dwell in her gaze. The bedlam in her mind finally finds speech, "Why are you doing this to me?"

Her mood shifts so swiftly, I find it difficult to keep up. Any bitterness her face may have held drops away like water from a smooth statue. She sighs deeply, from a kind of mental depletion, as if she doesn't expect me to answer in accordance to whatever words she deeply seeks to hear. As my gaze finds hers, I am met with a shrill watery glass wall that seemingly swims in a sort of blurred mist before her saddened eyes.

"If it makes you feel any better, I didn't specifically target you or anything…shit happens princess, and the sooner you learn that, the easier this transition will be for you." I answer the way she expects me to. She probably even thinks she's got me all figured out by now because of it. It makes me mad.

The way she flip-flops emotions as if they were going out of style with every passing minute. She's currently sporting a hardened lip, with a tethered brow to match. And while I've been through my fair share of hell, I find my body is too frail for this ever-change in moods. It's as oddly disappointing as it is annoying.

Then there's the vain notion in which she thinks she knows me. She doesn't know anything about me, aside from the fact that I am being too vague for her liking. But how am I supposed to tell her the truth? About what happened to her? About what we have recently discovered has happened to both her fathers? Her emotions already change faster than a bat out of hell. What will they do if she finds out something as bad as this? The intense fatigue I'm feeling at her most recent whirlwind begs me not to find out.

More importantly, did she ever stop to think that maybe I'm purposely being vague? That I might be trying to protect her? I could be so many different things right now—supportive, sympathetic, calloused, confused, saddened, indifferent, criminal—yet she only chooses to pick the negative images to peg me with against my will. All undoubtedly caused by the label my dreaded career choice binds me to. It comes to show just how small a world it is she comes from. Such is the ignorance of those who have never ventured outside of what very limited culture they're taught in their labor-oriented schools. I have every right to be offended.

But how can I take offense to ignorance? That's not even a battle worth batting an eyelash at much less fight for. It's like fighting something that isn't there. You can swing your punches with all your might and thrash your sword in every direction you find fit, but you'll end up with the same results every time you try: nothing. And by the time you've fought your way to what you think is satisfaction, you'll realize your muscles ache with overexertion, your mind is exhausted by paranoia, and there is nobody lying slain or even slightly wounded by your mighty sword before you. As if you've only been fighting yourself the entire time. You might as very well have, considering you were dumb enough to try and fight something as ghostly as ignorance in the first place.

So while it angers me, this is why I do not fight it. I simply stand from my seat and make to leave the room. My crew has been reading my movements the whole time and takes my exit as their cue to bail out of this crazy emotional hell pit. As I turn to close the door behind me, I take one last glance at her solemn figure before me. Her head drops into her hands like a storm-broken flower. The door slides shut, and she suddenly becomes the vision of a cold, steel door before my face.

I don't lock it. She seemed defeated enough; I don't think she needs to feel any more imprisoned. Plus, we're floating in space, thousands of light years away from any type of civilization. What would it even matter if she did escape? It's not like she'd have anywhere to go anyways. And I'm pretty sure she couldn't fly this ship to save her life. Her best bet would be to jump out into space without a suit on and be obliterated immediately by its vacuum. That alone is enough to make anyone feel apprehended against their will.

Even my crew and I try not to stay floating out here for long, in fear of cabin-fever possibly consuming us whole. Enclosed isolation in excess never leads to anything good happening. Though I have the strangest feeling we may be cooped up longer than any of us might like.

**Day 1**

**Stage 1: Denial (Characterized by Hyperactivity and Eagerness)**

After a mild word war with Santana and a greatly gratifying hyper sleep, it appears as if a new trouble has dawned on my thickening mental horizon. We left Lima in such a hurry that we didn't stock up on enough supplies to last us long. Since then, this is the case, I had Brittany immediately start tracking the closest planets to us. Being the magnificent navigator she is, it wasn't long before she found four different suitors.

Again, there were a few problems with this scenario. For one, they were all either merchant or city planets. And after our recent brawl with the Demagogues back on Lima, we aren't in much favor of merch planets anymore. At least not until we lick our wounds a little cleaner. The second issue: we've spent almost all of our Solar Keeps on engine repairs and alcohol. We wouldn't even be able to afford the docking fees for planets like those anyways. This would probably lead to our immediate arrest.

What we needed to do was get to the closest blacklisted planet, and quick.

At this point you'd think that fate had conveniently replaced the 'L' in my luck with 'F,' because the nearest blacklisted planet is light years away. I may be exaggerating slightly on the actual measurement, but the distance would definitely outlast our supplies.

Santana thinks we should take our chances with one of the merch planets. It's not like we haven't raided one before. It would actually be quite easy to slip in undetected with our visibility generators up and running again. That is, if the engines can hold out long enough to keep the power grid well and alive. It would be as if we had completely wiped any evidence of our presence off the grid. Now, the shields only stay activated for a limited amount of time because it takes so much power to run, but it would be more than enough time to grab some food, steal some cash, and bolt undetected.

I must say, Santana makes quite the compelling and convincing argument…and for that reason I choose to ignore it. We are now headed towards Haven X—the closest blacklisted planet to our immediate location.

Our food is to be rationed; our patience is to be tried. So, buckle up buttercup—this is about to be one hell of a ride!

**Day 2: Try to find something to do**

"One of the best cures for boredom, and a common combatant for tomb fever, is cleaning," they say. Of course, when I say "they," I'm referring to the advertisement now blaring from the commercial on the Holographic Compu Unit—HCU for short. We are always privy to its charms; being that it itself is also a great boredom relief tool. It's definitely the more preferred method of distraction to that of cleaning.

Funny thing is, I actually stop to take this idea into consideration. I mean this ship could use a little buff and shine here and there. It's not dirty beyond livability, but it could probably use a little more TLC than we've been providing it. We only ever do the bare minimum in chores as it is, and now have more than ample amount of time to make this place look like new.

The longer I think about it, the more excited I become at the thought. I play with a hundred possibilities fitfully and freely like a musician running her fingers over a treasured key-board.

But then I remember that to do that would require me to give up the HCU. And that means I would have to give up all my shows along with it. I could be stuck watching some pansy fantasy animal crap with Brittany or a galactic hovercraft race with Puck. Or even worse, Santana's shitty soap operas—and I'm telling you, one episode of that shit could easily drag on for days.

So, to this commercial I say, "One of the best cures for boredom is not cleaning! It's mediocre at best. The one and only cure is maintaining continual control of the HCU remote. A survival of the fittest for your entertainment needs if you will. For whomever wields the power of channel control, will suffer the least most boredom, and I, my dear cleaning commercial, will not buy into your silly forms of product promotion, and will so dominate this holographic receiver!"

We stayed as we were: all four huddled around the HCU watching everything my little heart desired. Santana complained. Brittany laughed at all the things that were not funny. Puck drank himself to an odd state of sort of half-awake snoring. Rachel still refused to acknowledge our existence and stayed locked up in her room. And me…well, I believed that nothing could ever replace that…. And that belief lasted for forty eight hours.

**Day 4: Keep trying to find something to do**

I call my crew to a meeting in the mess hall. The gloppy masses of mush practically crawl around on my plate before me, and I think to myself how fittingly this place is named. One stab of my fork and I'm at least half sure my food is dead.

Still, I have to eat it to survive, so I turn off my nose receptors, doing my best not to taste it. It's increasingly clearer to me that maybe Puck's not such a good cook and that I might need to start looking for viable alternatives if survival is truly my goal here.

If anyone else is thinking the same thing, they are doing an excellent job of not showing it as we eat silently around the table. Meal time is always a time of silence for our little group. A homage to the many past times we were destitute before and being so could not enjoy the act of eating so freely. We've all experienced this in some way. Whether it being on the brink of actual starvation or the religious practice of "fasting" from the many material things you so adore in "penitence" for all the things given up for you and your sins. All four of us equally bask in the strange redemption this quiet time brings us during each and every meal.

So it is only after we are all finished eating, that Santana finally reminds me why I brought us here in the first place.

"Okay, so what's with the mandatory meeting Mein Führer?"

"Yea Q, what's up? Did we do something wrong?" Brittany added innocently from across the table.

"No B, you guys haven't done anything wrong, and Santana, while I kinda like your newest term of endearment, you still need to stop being a bitch," I respond behind the cheekiest of grins.

She makes to move at me. The loud squeal of the chair legs pierces the air as they scrape across the metal floors. But just as much as I know she will always react this way to my teasing, I know she will always be stopped by Brittany before she can actually do anything about it. The Latina could easily break free of the girl's grip if she wanted to, but she never does.

What little struggle she does attempt to free herself from the blond is obviously just for show. It makes me wonder what she's really thinking in these types of moments. If maybe she's secretly thanking me inside her head, for starting this mess so that she'd conveniently find herself in this position, with Brittany wrapped so tightly behind her, holding her back. Though her eyes say different, as they stare, hard, sharp, and glittering as a sword, in my direction, cutting through any and every barrier that keeps me from feeling her wrath.

Puck laughs hysterically from his end of the table, as he always does. His face is purple from the lack of oxygen and he's hunched over as if his abs ached with pain. He never fails to find our quarrels entertaining. I'm sure he'd let us go at it for as long as we could, maybe even to the point of ripping each other's hair out in rage, if he had any say in the matter. I'm just glad someone finds it as entertaining as I do. Even if he does include me in that equation.

"Okay, in all seriousness now…I've called you all here to discuss the concern that is tomb fever. As you are well aware, it is highly contagious, and threatens possible death to anyone it may seize….and I'm worried that we may already be experiencing the first stages, so I propose we brainstorm a solution…" I say in the most convincing captain's voice I can muster. I pace the floor before the dining table wildly from all the pent up energy I've collected inside me the last couple of days. I've been cautious to release them in small spurts over time as to control the rising madness that could abound otherwise.

An artless tapping of the leg here. A casual drumming of fingers there. It can build so fast, I find it harder and harder to control with time. This pacing offers me a much larger form of release than I've previously granted myself and I'm comforted by the bundles of energy it allows me to expel at my own expense.

"I've already considered cleaning," they all simultaneously groan at my proposal, "but then I thought about how none of us would actually do any of that shit, so now I've thrown it out as an option altogether…"

"OOO..OOO…OOO…pick me! Q! Pick me!" Brittany chants, bouncing wildly in her seat, one arm waving through the air, begging to be called on like a young child in school.

"Okay…uh, what do you suggest B?"

"We could build models of the Seven Wonders of the Universe using empty soda cans. I've always wanted to do that," she answers shyly.

"Okay….that's always one option…anybody else have any ideas?"

"Honestly Q, I've got shit I needs to do, and don't have much time for bullshit or suggesting bullshit that we might do…so if you'll excuse me," Santana spoke bitingly, as she got up to leave from the table.

She probably hasn't finished watching her damn soaps yet. I'm sure there's still days worth of crappy drama left for her enjoyment, and once that's over she'll be much more interested in any activity _anyone_ suggests. Brittany, however, is too caught up in the brainstorming process to notice anything else.

"Oh! We can also play that ancient game we bought in the black market…what's its name again…scribble?"

"Scrabble Brit…" Puck answers for her as he continues to balance a spoon on his tray.

And so this is how it went for the majority of the brainstorm session: Brittany yelling out the many random things she's been dying to do, me trying to keep up with writing them all down in my notebook, and puck idly listening and grunting approval from his little corner of the table as he played with the silverware.

After hours of deliberation, and pages full of notes, we were eager to start immediately. Or as soon after we finished our deserts in silence as was humanly possible.

**Day 5: She finally caves**

The conversation started playfully enough…

"So when are you gonna finally make a move on sexy little-miss-Lima back in there?" Puck asks teasingly, "Cuz if _you_ won't, I promise _I_ will…fineness like that should never go to waste, especially if I have the chance to do anything about it!"

I roughly kick the bare skin of his calf that rests close to my own. The odd angle makes it difficult to make good contact, so I twist my leg until I feel his shin bone connect fully with the outsole rim of my boot. I mean it just as playfully as he does, but secretly harbor this deep want for him to feel a sting of pain from the action. Then I kick him again. And finally I hear the anticipated response I'd been waiting for as I slide my boot down his leg, gathering the numerous thick black hairs collected there along with it. I can hear the tears in his voice as he screams out in pain and grapples at his now very tender flesh.

"I should probably start trying the day _you_ become less of a jackass. But then we'd _both_ just lose in the end," I respond after I feel as if I'd successfully relayed enough of a message to him through the battery of his leg. I'm still not quite sure what message I'm even trying to prove, but his suffering makes me mildly satisfied that I'd done the right thing. Whatever that is.

Puck knows me better than that though. It's almost like he can understand every move I make, even when I'm not so sure of them myself. He reads into my every action, and surprisingly reads me quite well. And for whatever reason, this one causes him to back off.

"Hey, babe, you know I didn't mean it like that…just a little guy talk, you know the drill…" the playful mood slinks away as somberness washes over us, chilling in its sudden appearance, "Come on, tell old Puck what's up! I know somethin's buggin' yah. This is bro time, and you know whatever is said during a bro session stays in that bro session…"

I mouth the last of his sentence to myself mockingly. It's a part of our bro code, which has become more binding than life itself. I only mock it because I know the fact he's quoted it will easily make me spill, feeling safe in the laws established by this brotherhood we've created.

"I just don't know what to do anymore Puck…she hasn't come out for days, and I don't know, I guess I might be a little worried about her." My voice echoes across the stalls, and sounds all too foreign as it returns back to my own ears.

"Don't worry! Sometimes when I'm on night watch in the cockpit I can hear her leave her room to go to the bathroom and stuff, and I'm pretty sure Brit's been sneaking her food every now and then…she's not gonna die or anything."

"That's not what I mean," I sigh in unknown defeat, "I don't know what I mean."

"Man, you really got it out for this chick huh," he replies in-between strained grunts.

"Well, I wouldn't necessarily say I've 'got it out for her'…more like an odd fascination…like every time I'm around her, or even so much as think about her, something strange happens to that navy blue feeling where my heart used to be…"

"Sounds to me like you just got bit by the lov—"

"NOPE! Don't say it!" I interrupt loudly.

I have a weird fear of saying things that aren't true out loud. Like if you do, then the universe hears it and can then make it a truth. And there are some things that just don't need to be true. What nerve he has, trying to curse me with something as dangerous as that. I'll be damned if I let him.

"What? Come on Quinn, you know it totally does sound like—"

"Puck! I swear to God if you don't shut your mouth right this instant, I swear I'll climb under this stall and strangle you with your own pants—"

I want to continue threatening him. I can hear his giggles dancing around my head as I fume in my contempt. And I don't think he's actually taking anything I say seriously. But before I can fully lay into him a loud thud erupts from above us. Then, what sounds like the daintiest of footsteps plays across the ceiling above our heads. A startling distraction from our previous conversation.

"What the fuck was that!" Puck whispers harshly and with distinct shortness. We automatically assume the worst of the unexpected and unknown in due preparation for survival, and remaining quiet enough to hear out more sound is the first response to these types of assumptions. A survival tactic to say the least, that has indefinitely saved us on numerous occasions.

"I'm not quite sure…but it didn't sound good whatever it was." I start grabbing at my pants, preparing to pull them up at any minute. Escape routes play throughout my mind's eye as I weigh out my options. I should mention, my plan only involves me—as per usual. After all, Darwin's theory of survival of the fittest wasn't just twentieth century babble.

My first tactic is to distract Puck from realizing that I'm forming a plan—especially a plan that doesn't involve him. "What if it's an ambush? Maybe a few demagogues caught up to us and boarded the ship. And Santana and Brittany are up there trying to fend them all off!"

This method definitely works. He has to be reeling right now through all the possibilities involving a situation like that. He lets out a loud gasp appalled at the thought of it and suddenly the plunger beside me slips away into his stall. I'm guessing this is his best plan of recourse. I can't help but make a comment at the stupidity of this gesture.

"Really Puck! Did you really just take my fuckin plunger!"

"Hell yeah! A dude's gotta be prepared!" He cries out, his voice cracking under the pressure.

"Holy shit! I seriously think someone's coming in!" I fight with my pants even more, fumbling in my fear.

We always leave the doors wide open during these meetings of ours. Santana and Brittany have come to accept that we frequently have them and they would never intrude if they didn't absolutely have to. That's one of the main reasons why puck and I started this in the first place. It was a place we could go to vent and be ourselves that no one else would really want to be. It became a safe haven for our inner most thoughts and secrets. A sanctuary of support for each other's woes, which remained a barrier to the cruelty that is Santana and her wrath. But this seems as if it will be the end to the most glorious of releases.

"Don't worry, I'll protect you!" He says gallantly. I can tell he's holding the stupid plunger up before him like a scepter, even if I can't actually see him through the thin wall that sits between us.

"A Plunger! And what exactly are you gonna do with that, plunge him to death?"

Even in a life or death situation, Puck manages to prove just how unserious he can be about everything.

"Would you want to be touched by this!" He shrieks nippily. And to further emphasize his point, he slips the end of the plunger under the wall near my legs.

I don't have to answer him. The fact that I'm squirming and squealing to escape the vile tool is answer enough. My discomfiture serves to further amuse him. And we are back to a rather normal playful banter. Almost as if we hadn't been frightened out of our minds before. Almost as if fear itself truly was all we should ever really fear. That is until the door slowly creaked open.

"Eh hem…hello? Captain Fabray? Are you in hear?" A small feminine voice cooed from the door. This sound alone proves to be the most frightening, spine-straightening thing I have experienced to this day.

Correction, it is upon hearing _her_ voice that now has me frozen so tightly in place. Hands clenched into sheet white fists. My heart along with every other organ inside me, long since dropped to the pit of my stomach. I'd almost rather it be Demagogues at this point. Nothing will ever save me from the embarrassment I will most undoubtedly feel at being caught in another one of my daily routines with Puck.

I would start praying right now if I'd have thought of it any earlier. By the time she rounds the corner still in search of me, though, it's too late to invest myself in a long forgotten act of religion. Still, I'm not entirely prepared for her reaction when she finally catches glimpse into the open stall.

"Oh my Goodness! I'm so sorry! I d-d-d-d-didn't know you were busy—" She calls out, shielding her eyes from seeing any more of my lower nakedness. It's funny; this is the first time I've seen her so flustered before. She's usually so good at handling every feet of contact with such poise and elegance. While her flushed cheeks and ragged breathing both greatly astonish me as well as intrigue my curiosity as to what they mean, I am finding myself more petrified of the fact that I make her react in such a way.

"It's the latrine Berry…what else would I have to do in here aside from business?" I question sarcastically, trying desperately to block out my curiosity and hold taught to my perceived nature.

"Well yes, I-I-I understand that…I just-just wanted to talk with y-you about som—" As she's speaking, she fumbles about helplessly trying to avert her gaze and leave my stall. Only, she fumbles her way into the occupied stall next to me. Where an eyeful of Puck has her even more frazzled than before.

There's a sharp intake of breath at the realization, and then the quick flash of a dark figure as she passes back by my stall to escape the scene that has now been fully unraveled before her very eyes. Eventually, I am doused in a silence that has me questioning if this situation even happened at all. I never do hear the door open again. Only the drip drop of a few water pellets from the sink we never could quite fix. I know she's still in here. Whether it be from pure persistence to say what she had originally intended to say or pure shock at seeing what she saw, she has no intent to leave. Me being me, I can't take the uncomfortable silence for much longer.

"What do you want Rachel?"

I know my callousness is unwarranted. I could have easily locked the door just as easily as she could have never entered in the first place. It's not like she even knows what happens in here anyways, hell, not even Santana and Brittany know that. How ignorant of me to assume that Rachel would be anything like Santana and Brittany, and turn a blind eye to that which they don't want to know. And how even more ignorant of me to still direct all the frustration I feel about this to her, even when I know I am the one to blame fully for my own embarrassment.

Oh, but the Fabray in me only allows that I soundlessly recognize this ignorance. Never to fix it or replace it with anything else. I've become expert at projecting my inner-most feelings onto anyone close enough to take it. I actually believe this masks my feelings from the outside world, but in the end it only leaves me feeling all the more vulnerable knowing that someone may have still seen these feelings as they are so ravenously reflected upon them.

"I j-just wanted to let you know that I have become quite bored and lonely….and if I am to be on this ship, regardless of my current status, I would like to at least participate in any daily activities. I may be a prisoner against my will, but I refuse to go stark mad while you decide what it is you wish to do to me." The more she spoke, the more her confidence builds helping her slip so casually back into her normal poised self.

Though I still can't see her through the solid walls of the bathroom stall that separates us, I imagine her saying this to her reflection in the mirror above the sink.

It just seems like something a girl like her would do. Someone so caught up in themselves that they can regain all confidence upon seeing their own image. Someone so shaken by what they'd just seen that to muster up enough courage to say anything in any other direction other than her own would be near impossible to find. Like she has to say something to herself, even if it's not exactly what she's needing to hear, to convince herself she's okay.

I pull up my pants, fasten my buckle, and flush the toilet behind me before exiting the stall. I walk up to the open sink beside her casually with a small smirk on my face solely for her benefit. I find her eyes in the mirror and will them to find mine as well, hoping to somehow convey that I've figured something out about her. Something she thinks is private and personal. Something she may not even know about herself. She tries so hard to avoid my gaze, eyes fixated on her reflection in the mirror.

"You know…if you stare at that thing too long you may start to see some things you never really wanted to see about yourself…" I say mockingly, so proud in my innate ability to read people. I dry my hands on my shirt after washing them, and turn to look at the real her.

My gaze is all too penetrating, I'm sure. But she holds to her guns like a steadfast sniper in the confines of her own reflection in the mirror. I wonder if she's as stubborn as me. I long to see the depths of her mind's eye to know what it is she's thinking in this moment as she stares past the superficiality of light reflecting glass. I almost look to the mirror again curious to see what she's found inside. But I find myself slightly fearful of what I might find. Worried that she may see the same thing.

"You are welcome to participate in any activity you so wish upon this ship as we make our way to our destination." I'm becoming paranoid by the looks she gives to my reflection in the mirror, as if she could see everything I am written across the glass where my forehead and eyes rest.

I slam my hand to the cool steel sink and it startles her into reality. The loudness of the action causes her to jump and the stillness keeps her focus now on my hand before her. I feel her eyes slowly crawl up my arm and across my shoulder, until they're burning through my own eyes. "Remember, you are still a prisoner. So, you are bound only to this ship. No trying to contact the outer worlds, and no chance for escape. There is no air and no life for you outside of these walls, and while you remain within them you are at my command. And trust me doll face, gorgeous as you may be, I don't have any problem putting you in line. Understood?"

I only see her nod once before I turn away to leave the bathroom. I'm more than ready to get out of this situation and leave it far behind. I stop in the doorway before I leave, remembering one more thing left unsaid between us.

"Oh…and princess?" I can feel her eyes on the back of my head as I speak, "Next time you might wanna think about knocking before you barge in on people in the bathroom. Puck can do wonders with a plunger."


	4. Feel It Out for Once and Feel No CONT'd

**Note: This is still technically chapter 3, but because it was so long I posted it into two different chapters on fanfic.**

**Story Rating: M because it's awesome**

**Chapter Rating: still T**

**Disclaimer: Still applies. :)**

* * *

><p><strong>Day 15: Palindrome—slowly losing control<strong>

Sometimes it feels as if my life has taken on a certain palindromic quality; as if at first glance it looks like a confusing jumble of words bound by random bouts of punctuation. However, upon further study, it becomes fairly structured as the sentence is always read the same way backwards and forwards.

I know what you're thinking. 'Oh, to live the life of a pirate. As carefree and wild as the skies they travel. With no one as your keeper, subjugated by a life of plunder. How mysteriously wonderful and adventurous it must be.'

You might think the same of a palindrome as you first read it as well. Admiring of the wild and carefree style it seems to exude. But this is such a constrained writing style, binding the writer by some condition that forbids certain things or imposes a particular pattern, monotonously to say the least. I feel constrained to the repetitious placement, a life by which my moniker has forced me into.

I am expected to loot, fight anything standing in my way, and eventually be caught and punished for my troubling crimes. These are the only things expected of me and my crew. It's quite the routine life if you think about it, seeing as we follow this plan according to expectations, both forwards and backwards. Some see it as loot, fight, get caught, and some see it as get caught, fight, and loot what's left. It doesn't matter the direction, it's become quite the recurrent pattern nonetheless. A pattern I find myself all the more engrossed within.

My life is not supposed to be routine and expected. People shouldn't be able to read me so easily backwards and forwards like a palindrome for their entertainment. And it worries me that I'm so deep into this lifestyle that even if I was to attempt something new, to stir the pot, I would still be read the same backward as forward.

Borrow or rob? Rob or borrow?

I wouldn't even be able to make the decision to switch up my game plan without coming off in this manner. Gah, and it's in my head constantly; my bittersweet obsession. That even as I do the most unforgivable act I can think of by becoming one of the most hated and ill-revoked pirates of the universe, I'm still stuck in the conformable. By conforming to public expectations of my nonconformity.

I am who I've always wanted to be and who I've tried desperately not to be simultaneously, both backwards and forwards. If I cave and live a traditional life of conformity, by my culture's standards, I will undoubtedly live the daily routinized lifestyle I so loathe. On the other hand, if I continue to live my life in piracy, I will still undoubtedly live a routinized lifestyle with which I loathe.

"Oh my God! Santana! What happened to your arm!" Rachel's loud screech of concern echoes throughout the corridors of the ship that is slowly becoming more and more confining with the pass of each new 24 hours.

Being the captain, I feel obligated to seek out all the unwarranted commotion amongst my crew. It isn't too difficult to find the source. Santana's protests can be heard, I'm sure, from miles away, even through the ship's barrier-tight steel walls. The girl's fiery determination to fight any form of affection is not something easily detainable. I found them in the kitchen, Santana on one side and Rachel on the other, with only the island countertop as the barrier between them.

"Like I said, it's nothing okay! Stay away from me!" Santana yelled watching the girl's every move and flinching in the opposite direction every time Rachel attempted to move around one side of the island.

"Hey, what's going on in here?" I ask hoping to interfere and successfully stop their banter before Rachel really pisses Santana off. I can't quite tell if she's pushing the Latina's buttons on purpose. But either way, I don't think she knows what she's getting herself into by doing so.

"Q, you better grab your girl. She's one caring gesture away from gettin' the pattern slapped right off that ugly argyle sweater she's wearin'!"

"Alright, calm down San. Lemme see your arm.." I sigh out dismally. I've always hated having to play doctor with these numbskulls, but I know Rachel won't stop pestering until Santana's looked at—being the persistent girl she is.

I think Santana senses it too and willingly allows me to examine the arm that's caused such uproar. As I look it over, I notice that it is slightly swollen and as red as a dying star. I don't say anything; just twist the Latina's arm around, pretending to really consider the medical possibilities.

"So, what's the word Dr. Awkward? I'm good right?" Santana asks sarcastically, a visible sign that she's slowly becoming annoyed by my poking and prodding of her wound. To anyone else, this can come off exactly as it sounds—a backbiting and bitchy attempt at poor humor. But, I know Santana better than that, and to me, the fact that she even asked if she was okay shows the twinge of fear beneath the superficial layer she's provided.

She wants to know if she's okay just as badly as Rachel does. She's just as uncertain of the condition as anyone else, and is silently pleading with me to play this off in just the right way. So, the question becomes, how the hell does she expect me to do that!

_Don't nod! _I tell myself to fight what has become my instinctual response to every situation in which I have trouble giving a reasonable answer. San doesn't need me to agree with her out of first response. She needs as much honesty as I can deliver without openly agreeing with Rachel. An enigma that I've yet to understand. I'm surprised I've even caught on this far. Santana's always impenetrably hard to read. Though, I guess, with enough trips like this together under our belts, it gets easier with every minute we're forced to spend in the other's company.

I still don't have an acceptable response for the poor girl, at least not one that is to her standards. At this point I'm desperate, not only to give her a truthful answer, but to say or do anything before Rachel catches on as well. I stare deep into the Latina's stony eyes and strain to force feed my response through them. Rachel cuts in haughtily, in the time it takes for me to do so.

"Santana, your arm is really red…like dangerously red! You should get that looked at by a professional! I mean what if it's contagious?"

"When I want _your_ opinion, I'll rattle your cage!" Santana quipped with a bitterness to her tongue. I finally find mine. And Rachel gasps in offense to what I can only describe as the beginning of Diva War I.

This is the start of new and unfamiliar territory. Sure, I argue with Santana all the time—on a fairly regular basis too—but in all those times, our quarrels play out as if they are scripted. It as if we are reading off lines written by the most elegant hand of some higher power that fully controls that extent of our relationship. As if that's how we are always supposed to interact, being that we both have the natural aptitude for top spot. I stumble over a few of my words as I speak them, unsure of where they will take us next—so much in contrast to my normally easy-to-predict lifestyle.

"I don't know about all that now…It's probably just one of the first signs of tomb fever or something. I would just run down to the Med Lab and grab some ointment from the extender kit if I were you. Maybe take some Ilefoxil to keep your hands off if the rash is really all that irritating to you." I say casually, feigning the best display of nonchalance as I can in this moment. I know San will need a little more than some healing cream and a stupid pill, hell, Rachel knows San will need more than healing cream and that stupid pill. But I am still playing the Latina's odd little game, and really can't afford to lose. Why I feel this way, is not an easily answered question, not even if I were to be completely honest with myself alone.

I only know that the little diva we picked up from the dirt planet of Lima is shaking all stability in the life we know with her odd compassionate gestures and her inability to know when to back off. I am compelled to comply with Santana by default, seeking any comfort I can in the old standard of living she offers me. I can complain about my hatred for everything routinized until I'm blue in the face, but until this point, I never knew it could be so terrifying to suddenly go without it. The loss of control that I—and most likely Santana as well—feel in merely the presence of one Rachel Berry. I now cling to all palpable routine offered to me like Jesus, the son of my father's God, to the very cross that killed him.

"Really! You're just gonna pawn it off as a side-effect of tomb fever! The girl's arm is twice the size of the other and a deep shade of red that could put fire to shame!" Rachel cried out above our silent panic, "Is there anyone on this filthy pirate soup-can with at least decent medical training!"

This girl may have easily shaken the foundation of everything we know, but I'll be damned if I let her see me hanged before her because of it!

"Not really…I mean there's Puck," I answer with a shrug, hoping this gesture takes with it more than just her question from my weighted shoulders. "Puck!" I call for him. He must've been listening to us this whole time from somewhere close by, because he immediately stumbles through the door when I call his name. "He's pretty handy with a needle."

"Seriously! You place the most crucial life-or-death decisions in the hands of an uneducated, egotistical, airheaded, meat bag like him!" The manner in which she describes him tells me they've had some type of altercation sometime within the past couple of weeks of being cooped up together. I sympathize with the girl, however briefly. Puck never has been good with first impressions.

It takes him a minute to realize he's being insulted, "Hey!" He calls out in offense, though still firmly rooted to his chair. He's always known better than to jump in the middle of a cat fight. Panthers, lions, and tigers never play nice when it comes to territorial defenses, and Puck has learned the true meaning of this phrase as it's applied to women. So he sits back helplessly to let the cats fight it out.

"Heal boy, I've got this," I interject in his defense heroically. I turn pointing a disciplinary finger in Rachel's direction, "Now, _that_ was totally uncalled for! He is more than just an uneducated, egotistical, airheaded meat bag!"

From the corner of my eye, I could see Puck nod his head in agreement, thrilled that someone wanted to stand up for him. He crosses his arms across his over-muscled chest and sneers confidently, head held high, at Rachel.

"He's a shitty mechanic too," I continue, much to Puck's dismay, "And the resident maintenance man!" Confidence drains from his face with every word until he's hunched over in resentment. "He's even our plumber because, ew! Who really wants to have to deal with that shit?"

I'll never pass up the opportunity to fuck around with Puck. He buries his face in his hands, attempting to hide what I know is evidence of his embarrassment. It never fails to bring a smile to Santana's face, as she's now dubbed over in laughter at his expense.

"Oh my God! You are impossible!" Rachel calls out over the uproar, evidently confused by the sudden shift in mood and determined to stay on topic, "How does that make your argument any better!"

Santana gives me a knowing look as her laughter slowly dies down, and I'm sure we've won this battle. I've at least done well by Santana's standards, which makes me confident that not all control was lost.

"It doesn't," I say cockily, "I just think that, given your current predicament, you might want to show a little more respect for your 'filthy pirate' hosts while you remain a captive on this 'soup-can'."

I surround her as I speak, letting her hear my words from every angle. My finger slips delicately along her shoulder blades, causing her skin to flush in a severe outbreak of Goosebumps. I know I'm merely toying with the girl, but the contact with her skin immediately sets my own on fire, and I begin to linger longer than I should. My heart pounds in my throat, so hard that if I were to speak, I'm almost positive that may be all she hears.

"Well, seeing as I _do_ indeed have basic medical training-a mandatory lesson in every school's curriculum on my planet I might add—and _you_ are in desperate need of medical personnel, I suppose _that_ will be _my_ job during my stay as a member of your crew," she rambled on more about proper medical protocols and reorganization of the infirmary. I'm not quite sure of anything else; I'm not actually listening to the words coming from her long-winded mouth. She could be demanding full control of the ship via a verbal contract, and I wouldn't have known otherwise, because her relentless nature caused all of us—Santana, Puck, and I—to gape obediently, frozen in shock.

And since I'm sort of immobilized at the moment, I have a little time to think to myself: _damn! If only I wouldn't have gotten so caught up in her touch, and stayed on track, this wouldn't be an issue right now! I could have said my final word and left her to it, instead, I'm caught in her landslide once again! I should have known she would willingly push back, she has with every altercation she's faced thus far. And now she thinks she's a fucking crew member! She's not even fucking threatened by the people who are supposedly her captors! What the fuck!_

And there it goes, just as quickly as it came. Any chance that we had won this battle shot down by a simple touch—a touch that I initiated nonetheless. I have nothing more to throw at her, and, God, I can't take any more from her. I snatch my hand back as if it'd been burned, and back away wide-eyed and frozen everywhere a part from what little movement remained in my feet. It took the last bit of energy I had left to break away and storm out of the room. It was becoming too small—too suffocating with her presence—that I had no other option but to escape.

"You're not a fucking crew member on this ship, you're a slave! And I'll be damned to hell if you honestly think you're gonna have any medical say on _my_ ship! Puck's our official medical officer and that's how it goes!" I managed to mumble out loudly enough for everyone to hear before I fully left the room. I wanted to leave with something rawer, something more commanding of her authority that would leave her at my mercy. But I would have waited till my death for those words to finally come. The basic message had been delivered though. There was no way she would ever step foot in my medical lab or assert any medical opinion she felt she had—not on my ship! I would make sure of that, and I didn't care how it was delivered. Just that it was.

What can I say? Rachel Berry has once again broken the strict palindromic rules of my life. And not by entering grammatical errors as most unplanned events tend to do-punctuation, capitalization, and spacing are usually ignored in the reading and writing of these highly conditioned sentences—but by completely rearranging the words so that it no longer reads the same forwards and backwards. So that, now—as much as it pains me to admit—it might make some actual sense.

Whatever she's done, it's drained me of all energy, with sleep the only cure. I do just that. Sleep until I can no more. I snicker to myself before I dose off, "Little girl wants to play doctor, how cute. Well not even in your wildest dreams Berry…not in your wildest dreams!"

**Day 22**

**Stage 2: Stupor (Characterized By a Blank Stare)**

So…It's been a full week with Berry as our temporary Medical Officer, and may I emphasize the word temporary. She ended up having a few medical tricks up her sleeve that had Santana healed within an hour. I never actually agreed to the idea when she demanded she be a part of my medical staff. But then again, I never really enforced my threat that she not be one.

It's complicated.

The days are growing longer and longer. And this kind of containment is becoming more constricting with time. Which is the polite way of saying, "We're all slowly going mad being cooped up for so long, that a knowledgeable Medical Officer—no matter how temporary she may be—might just be key to our survival on this ship."

Never underestimate the ability of increased boredom to cause such proneness to injury. Never underestimate the lengths to which I and my merry crew of pirates will go in order to be wholly entertained. I guess doing stupid things is our way of making life interesting in times like these.

You see, madness does things to a person. It can make you happy and it can make you sad; a constant rotation of laughing one minute and crying the next. It can cause you to do things you wouldn't typically do. It can make you admit to things you'd never really thought about before. It can tear through walls you've purposely built and it will tear through walls you'd never known existed. Too much of it can kill even the strongest of men, and that is what we call a bad case of tomb fever. While at the same time, not enough of it and life can feel all too plain for comfort.

Madness is why I find myself lying guiltily on the floor next to Rachel. I know I'll hate myself for this later. I always do regret these kinds of things. But how was I to resist when she practically begged me to do it. Eyelashes fluttering wildly about her cheeks; her hand warm and inviting as she pulls me along without question.

She was my downfall long before this. She has been since the moment I set eyes on her at that stupid bar back on Lima; long before our fight last week…long before now. Why try and fight it any longer? I may as well just ride out the rest of the fall considering I haven't successfully stopped it thus far.

But then again, isn't that exactly what madness would have me believe?

"Now it's my turn. Let me show you how it's really done," she purrs, turning her head to the side so that the words brush deliciously against my ear.

I stare at the ceiling before me as I lay here on the floor of the ship's cockpit. Rachel lies next to me, so close, that a few strands of her hair tickle playfully at my cheek. I can't bring myself to brush them away, finding that I've always truly enjoyed any form of contact I could possibly have with the small brunette.

"I'd like to see you try," I flirt back effortlessly, caught up in the emotion of the moment and her increasing closeness.

We'd already been at this for hours now. The same thing, in the same place, for the longest time we've managed to stand each other since that first night at the bar. So stuck in a position that will one day, when our minds are well again, have us both asking ourselves: how the hell did we end up there doing that?

As for now, the answer is crystal clear; it is sheer madness that has brought us lying together on this floor. Well, that, and a raid of the liquor cabinet. Yes, liquor and madness are the reason why a small, wet paper ball wad just went whizzing past my face and now sticks steadfastly to the ceiling next to a multitude of others exactly like it.

"You're good with that thing. You ever consider going pro?" I ask jokingly.

I feel warmed by the fineness of the alcohol and the closeness of Rachel's body. There was a moment in which I briefly resisted when she showed up at my door with a half-emptied bottle of my finest imported liquor in hand and a hazy smile across her lips. I think it's the first time I've ever seen her smile.

I stared down into the glass she had poured for me; seemingly mesmerized by the liquid. The white with gold flecks flickering back at me. I bring the drink to my lips and taste an unidentifiable spice on the rim of the glass. It smells sweet inside the mug and tastes like snow when the first drop touches my tongue. I find it hard not to guzzle it down with every new sip I am offered. Much how seeing her smile for the first time made me feel. She hasn't stopped smiling since she introduced the idea at the bedroom door.

"Don't mock me Fabray. I told you I was the queen of spitballs!" she slurs before blowing another spit wad through a small old pipe we found precisely for the occasion. I sit up and take another swig straight from the bottle of the liquor we've yet to fully polish off.

"Oh, your majesty," I mock playfully, with drawn out vowels and a drunken bow of respect.

She pops up beside me with mock indignation across her face and jerks the bottle from my grasp right before taking a long swig herself. Even through the haze of the alcohol, I still enjoy watching the liquid move graciously through her long slender neck offered to me.

"Actually, I wish to be referred to as my Liege," she says after her rather long draw from the bottle.

"Well, I'd rather refer to you as Madame Annoying-As-All-Fucking-Hell."

"You're such an ass!" She responds with a small laugh, that same big smile plastered across her lips despite my comment. It turns into a slight pout, although still very evident behind the puffed out bottom lip, "You're mean. I've decided I don't like you anymore again."

"Yeah yeah whatever. I know you already like me. You don't seem like the type of girl that gets drunk and shoots spit wads at the ceiling of a pirate's cockpit with just anyone. Besides, I'm pretty sure you've even liked me from the very beginning!"

"I so did not!" She punctuates each word with a gasp of disbelief that I'd actually imply such a thing.

"Okay, so maybe 'liked' is too strong of a word, but you gotta admit, you had to have at least felt _something_ for me in the very beginning! Or else we wouldn't be where we are now."

"I'll admit, I was considerably…" she pauses as if having difficulty searching for the right words, with a perfectly manicured forefinger, tapping deviously at her chin, "intrigued by you. Enough to hang around a lot longer than I usually would when someone tries to 'make their move' on me."

A cocky grin sneaks its way across my lips and she catches it out of the corner of her eye.

"But don't you think that ever meant I was interested in you Quinn Fabray!" she says sternly, waving that same manicured finger before me, "I don't care how funny you think you are with your charming little quips or how insanely cute you think you look in those sexy-ass cargo pants and perfectly form-fitted captain's jacket or how when you sing it makes me wanna kiss that stupid shit-eating grin right off your face, it'll take a hell-of-a lot more than that to get a girl like me to like you!"

It takes a moment for her to realize what she's just said, and as soon as she does she slaps a hand across her mouth.

"Oh shit! Did I just—did that really just happen? I didn't mean it like—" She half-mumbled through the hand over her mouth.

"Hello Freud, your slip is showing," I retort teasingly through small bouts of quieted laughter.

"Oh fuck, Quinn, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"she starts before giving up halfway burying her head in her hands with shame.

"No need to apologize Rach. You're not the only girl who's ever admitted to wanting to kiss me stupid," I respond. She groans loudly from her hands and I let out another soft chuckle at her expense.

Awkward is a mild understatement of the type of situation this played out to be. We sit there in our usual long pause, quite used to it happening by now. She only lifts her head to take another long draw from the bottle and when she does, I see the bright pink of her cheeks that she's been trying to hide. I feel softer; soft like those very rosy cheeks before me.

I could blame it on the alcohol all I wanted, but the only thing I can think about is how badly I want to kiss one of those flushed cheeks. To leave an invisible imprint that will indefinitely cause an even deeper shade of red as it sets in to the skin that waits there for me. I watch her face as I lean closer; waiting for any sign of reproach. She does nothing. Our eyes meet, though not directly. I can't wait any longer.

My lips press lightly to that very cheek, and as I pull away, my tongue can't resist running across my lips at the loss of contact. It tastes like the sweetest of green apples we used to grow back on my home planet. I don't know if I miss it. Oh, but I know I miss that taste once it fades from my lips.

She blushes deeper just as I'd hoped. I look from her eyes to her half parted lips. It's as if she wishes to say something but can't figure out what that might be. Then back from her lips to her widening eyes. They are lightly glazed like the beginning frost setting across the glass of a window in winter.

She looks from my eyes to my lips. And from my lips back to my eyes lasciviously, unconsciously taking deep little huffy breaths in as she gazes back and forth between the two. I feel her magnetism pulling me forward ever so slowly the anticipation might just kill me. Her head falls to the side as slowly as I pull closer to her as if we were a puzzle piece mechanically shifting in order to form a more perfect fit. And right before I can fully feel her lips on mine, she turns her face away.

"I'm sorry, I don't—" She sighs out heavily, having to rest her hands on my shoulders for support. Her breaths come in shaky little puffs against my ear and I'm too caught up to pull away.

I rest my cheek on hers, feeling the heat radiate onto my face from the intense blush that still presides there. This is not something I'm very good at—rejection. Mostly because it's not something I'm used to. Especially when I could have sworn I had seen her want this just as badly as I do.

Attraction only works one way, like the pull of a magnet. If attraction exists between the two they will undoubtedly join together almost immediately. If there is not, then they will both push each other away. It is not possible for one to seek attraction and the other pull away, it cannot happen in magnetism. It is no different for living beings.

I can't say I understand it, but I know I must accept that it has played out this way. I try not to let it get to me, and this is easy because I'm drunk, but tomorrow may not be as kind to let me forget. It gets all the more difficult to regroup myself still being so close to her. With a regretful sigh, I pull away, unable to open my eyes and face her in this even more awkward situation.

Now it's my turn to take the bottle and throw it back. I'm not sure what I hope to find at the bottom of it, but with the way I gulp it down, as if I wished to drown myself, you'd think I was searching for the grand prize in some solar keep give away.

When I've finally polished the rest of it off, the moment is still too ripe to speak, so I settle back down on the floor and continue blowing spit balls at the ceiling. Not even two spit balls in; I feel her sliding down beside me. She lightly grabs for my unoccupied hand and shawls it behind her head, which comes to rest sweetly upon my shoulder. I want to tell her not to play with me after something like that, but the feeling of her side grazing mine with every breath she takes distracts me from ever doing so. I'm betrayed by my body as it pulls her closer into me. When a delicate hand perches itself on my stomach, it is then I know that I would never leave this spot if I could. I would die here happy.

We lay like this together for I don't know how long. Time doesn't seem to exist whenever she's touching me. I tried keeping it by counting the number of times her hand would rise and fall with each breath traveling through my stomach. Though it's too difficult to think of anything other than her while I have her so close. I didn't even make it to the count of ten before it became one more thing lost on me. If only it were this easy sober.

"Quinn?" She says finally after the incident had become long forgotten in the closeness we now share.

"Mmmm?" I respond dreamily. A coolness sweeps over the spot where her hand once rested as she searches for mine. The warmness returns shortly when she brings both our hands back to the same spot on my stomach; mine resting beneath hers to the undulation of my breathing.

"Why am I here?" The question hangs in the air. I worry that she regrets being where she is and I fight hard to control my rising panic. She understands to elaborate when I shift my head down questioningly to find her eyes, "The night you took me…You said that you didn't specifically target me and that shit happens. What does that mean? What happened that night?"

I take in a deep breath, watching our hands follow atop my stomach for the last time before I take part in explaining what will inevitably ruin this perfect moment.

"Well princess—Rachel…" my tone is like that of a parent speaking to a child, with careful precision, "You're here because something bad happened that night, and I did everything I could to get you out of the situation. I promise you I'd never intended to kidnap you against your will or anything. It just seemed better for you to believe that than the truth."

"What's the truth?" She questions quizzically. Her speech is still slurred and her mannerisms continue to be somewhat playful as if she were listening to a story about someone other than herself. Making it easier to digest.

I don't want to tell her what happened. That she may have lost everything she's ever known. That she's never going back home-that is to say-as long as I have anything to do with it she won't. The smarter half of me knows better than to tell her these things, well aware of the implications it will bring. However, the drunken bastard in me finds it difficult to filter out inappropriate conversation.

"Well…demagogues raided your home, for whatever reason, I never really figured that part out…but it was shortly after I sang to you, as I was walking home…I caught onto their scent and followed them back to your house and by the time I got there, they had the place smoked out. I broke in and found you drugged out in your room…the only thing I could think of was to grab you and take you back to my ship…I never really thought of anything else after that…but when I got you to safety, they had already followed me there…so we launched and the rest you know…"

I regret saying it as instantly as the words left my lips. It was as if I was watching myself from far away, and I cursed the asshole that controlled my tongue as soon as I saw the poor girl's face drop along with the news.

"W-what about my fathers? Did they make it out okay?" Oddly enough, if she is feeling even the slightest of panic, the way in which she speaks definitely isn't showing it.

"That's the thing Rach…I don't know. I never saw or heard them inside the house—hell, I didn't even know you lived with them—that they were even there. I just saw you and—I never even thought to check for anyone else…But they could have…maybe made it out of there okay…"

She gives me a stern look through the drunken haze of her eyes, urging me to be honest with her. Honesty down to the core of every word and opinion. Honesty that even my drunken self has a difficulty in finding to give to her. I don't want to see her eyes as I say it. What I may find hidden inside them is liable to tear me apart if they become any more intense in her stoic gaze.

"I'm not a hundred percent on this or anything, but…well, the gas was pretty thick…and you hadn't even had the time to realize what was happening by the time I found you—and you were even awake before then. The place was almost completely surrounded by demagogues…I could barely even get in and out without having to fight a little…I guess, what I'm trying to say is…no…I don't think your fathers, if they were truly in that house, could have made it out okay."

I leave it at that. There is no reason to dig myself even deeper than I already have had to. Surprisingly, she seems to have taken the news relatively well. I mean, she isn't jumping with glee or anything, but she doesn't seem too upset by it either. It almost appears as if currently she's simply numb upon hearing it; impartial one way or the other. And I can't say I don't feel relieved by her lack of an emotional response. Even though I can tell something's not right with the way she's reacting now, I'm excited to release the breath I'd been holding in anticipation of the worst.

We slip back into a silence, not as cozy as the last, but somehow the effects just as satisfying as we lie there together, side-by-side. This might be the first time a seemingly awkward situation didn't leave behind an uncomfortable humility that usually go hand-in-hand. It's actually very confusing, and this bugs me enough to write its way into my mind's filing cabinet for later when I might be able to better understand it. Right now, I'd still like to focus only on Rachel; at least while I still have her so close to me.

I wonder in random brief intervals why she seems so calm. Then, I can remember some old saying about a storm, and I want to connect the two thoughts, but my mind is becoming too fuzzy to think any further than that. Then, I can remember wanting to tell her that her hair smells like the honey suckles I used to nibble on as a schoolgirl back home. The words seemed too big for my tongue to hold, and my mouth felt so dry when I opened it to speak.

"Wanna go see what Brittany and Santana are doing?" She asks, sitting up with a mischievous trouble-making grin.

And that is that last thing I can remember her saying before the night fades to black.

**Day 23: Calm before the storm (Oh yeah, that's the saying!)**

Oh, my fucking head. It aches as if someone had spent an entire day violently shaking up my brains inside of it. I don't even want to open my eyes, fearful of how much worse the pain might become once I do.

I settle for a few grunts and groans of recognition, turning to either side in order to find a comfortable spot on my pillow where it may not ache as badly. I am silenced by a foreign hand that taps a path up my chest and too my face, as if it were searching for an off button.

My eyes pop open too quickly in surprise. I immediately regret this decision and close them back to ride through the expected ache that follows behind them. There can't possibly be much good that will come from this situation, I'm too sure of it.

The hand that had been previously searching for the snooze button grows satisfied as soon as I desist in noise-making and settles lazily across my face. It smells of an odd mixture of Vaseline and an exotic fruit that isn't as easily identifiable as the first, more prominent scent.

Depending on the situation and who the hand belongs to, this may or may not turn out to be just another funny story I can use to break the ice with patrons of random bars. Though, I can guess a few gaps into my current scenario, and judging by them alone, I don't think I'll be drinking enough anymore to show up at a bar ever again, much less make friends to tell stories to.

Once the aching settles back into a dull throb, I try the whole opening-my-eyes thing again. But this time I make sure to take it one eye at a time.

I start with the free eye, that doesn't have a girl's finger resting on top of it. The smallness of the hand, and the softness of the skin that encases it, is what gives it all away. That, and as I slowly start to come too, I become increasingly aware of a female outline that pieces so perfectly into the outline of mine.

My one eye goes crazy, searching about the room and anything it can find. To the right, I see the open door to my room. To my left, I can only see a fleshy blur of the hand resting on my face. If I look down, I can at least tell I'm not naked; and if I shift a little, I can still feel the rough material of the clothes I had been wearing the previous day. When I look up, my vision whites out and the sharp pains—that only a hangover can bring—return.

I sigh in frustration, wishing I had use of my other eye because the majority of mystery lies on that side. And just as soon as I make the wish, it's granted as the mystery hand slides down my neck, resettling on my chest. As surprising as this action is to me, I'm careful not to make the same mistake twice and suffer more suffrage to my head. Although I do find time to wish for the same genie who granted me my last wish to kindly grant me this last one and remove the hand from where it now rests comfortably. The genie must be a one-time dealer type mystical being because my second plea is noticeably ignored.

My other eye, however, is now free to explore the other side of the room. As my eye groggily creaks open, the female form beside me gradually fades into view. A messy mop of brunette hair splayed in an unconventionally neat style across the pillow and my shoulder. Next, follows the bare skin of an upper back that leads into the prominent arc of flawlessly tanned shoulder blades peeking out over the rim of a low-cut tank top. Then, my sheets seen twisted loosely around an amazingly toned ass; at least that's what the shape it leaves in my sheets implies. Though, it only serves to cover to about mid-thigh, as if she got hot in the night and half-failed at wrestling for freedom. God, and then those legs…Wait a minute.

I'm suddenly not as slow to recover, as if by miracle.

I know those legs. I could spot them a mile away without even trying.

I bolt up with more of a spring than any person in my condition should be able to have. My eyes search widely over my female bed companion. And I'll be damned if it's not Rachel Berry herself, passed out in nothing but a tank top and God I hope any piece of clothing somewhere on her bottom half. However, the vast amount of delectably bare skin doesn't leave many options as to what that might be.

She rustles restlessly in response to my quick movement, and I instantly realize that wasn't the smartest move. I don't think I can face her right now. Not in my condition anyways, and I let out a soft breath of relief when she finally settles once more.

Now that I'm fully free of her touch, I use the opportunity to flee the crime scene. I'll need one hell of a cup of java if that's what I have to look forward to later—Rachel Berry's gorgeous legs reprimanding me for whatever in God's name it was I might've done to them last night, or to anything that lies within their vicinity.

I scurry about to the mess hall with those images of Rachel now drilled into my head alongside the splitting headache. The sound of my feet as I shuffle through the door makes me nauseous. Or maybe it's because of my hangover—I haven't really decided yet. I am greeted with the sound of breakfast being cooked on the stove and the smell of a fresh brew throughout the air. Unfortunately, Santana and Brittany also accompany this greeting.

"Ohhhh, well good morning to you Q…looks like _you_ had an interesting night last night," Santana comments from her place at the stove.

"Not now San…can you at least wait until I wake up a little bit first? I feel like total shitfuck right now…" I whine pathetically, heading straight for the java-maker to pour myself a cup.

"Well seeing as _somebody_ not only thought it would be funny to cover the floor around my bed in Vaseline last night—that took hours to get out of mine and B's hair by the way, thanks for that—but also tore out the last two pages of every book in B's antique book collection. And this certain _somebody_ thought it'd be even funnier to replace the missing pages with clues to some fucking scavenger hunt to find the real pages hidden all over the motherfucking ship….so, no Fabray…I don't think I need to wait for shit…"

I can't stop the chuckle from escaping my mouth and try to hide my smile behind the mug in my hands. Apparently Rachel and I are maniacal geniuses when drunk.

"Seriously Quinn…those were like, my favorite books…they took me forever to find and now they aren't pretty and complete anymore," Brittany says as I sit next to her at the table. I don't think anyone can resist the Blonde. She has us all wrapped around her finger.

"I'm super sorry B…I got really drunk last night. I don't even remember doing it…I promise I'll make it up to you," I reply sincerely. I place a hand on hers and make concentrated eye contact so she knows I sincere I truly am.

"It's okay Q, just don't let it happen again, it makes me kinda sad," She says smiling as she gets up from the table and ruffles my already messy hair. She places her dishes in the automatic washer and pecks a kiss to Santana's cheek before leaving us behind in the galley.

"So….Santana…" I jeer, slowly recovering with every sip of java juice, "What's this now about it taking hours to get the Vaseline out of both you AND Brittany's hair?" I watch the back of her head penetratingly as she stops what she'd previously been doing and freezes in her place. Her back tenses up at the mention of Brittany's name.

"I mean, I did place Vaseline around YOUR bed last night right? Not B's? So how in the world would she end up covered in the stuff? Hmmm," I continue, enjoying every minute of embarrassment I cause Santana. Although, she doesn't seem to enjoy it as much as I do.

"I don't know Q-tip, you're the drunken asshole that walked in on us fucking last night, so why don't _you_ tell _me_?" I wasn't expecting her to be a brash about it. I'm too used to straight up denial that I choke on the truth now as it escapes her mouth without omission. I think she catches on to this and soon feels the need to speak again, "You don't remember did you?"

"Nope."

"Damn."

"Yep."

There's a short period where we size each other up. In preparation for what is liable to come next. We approach these moments with the skill like that of a poker player, always analyzing the cards we've been dealt, but being careful to never let it show on our face when we've got a good hand. Mine is just too good a hand not to reflect across my face this time. And boy does that piss Santana off even more.

"Look Fabray, I don't know what you think you know, but don't go makin' a bigger deal out of it than it is…yeah me 'n Britts got somethin' goin on, but any details aside from that don't really concern you, so stay the fuck out of it!" She threatens with the usual fire ablaze in her eyes.

It's how I can tell this means more than just sex to San. And while a part of me really wants to tease her about it, I know that she's the kind of person that would easily shut an opportunity like this out if she felt the least bit threatened. I couldn't do that to Brittany. Hell, I don't think I could do that to Santana. This might be the one thing she deserves to have in her life, and I'm not about to take it from her. Even if she is being a fucked up bitch about it.

"Well, whatever it is San…" her eyes penetrate through my skull as I speak, "I think it's good for you."

We don't have these kinds of moments very often. And when we do, they are so brief that you can't blink or you'll easily miss them. And you'll never see a moment like this if Puck's hanging around. It's like, between the three of us and our dominative need to always assert our more aggressive nature, there isn't much room for vulnerability. For whatever reason we always have to prove how much stronger, better, and faster one is over the other. There's no good way to explain it. It comes out sounding dumb no matter how I try, but the fact is it's there and there's no changing this interaction we have with each other.

I'm almost envious of how Santana has Brittany to entrust this more exposed side of herself. It's not easy pretending to be a rock when sometimes you feel like you could shatter at any moment. For now, this thing I have with Santana, no matter how insignificant it may seem, is the most I will ever share with myself. And for now, that will just have to do.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…whatever," she waves, rolling her eyes as a signal that she's done talking about it, "So…gettin' fucked up with the hostage…classy. What do you remember from last night Q? What other kinds of fucked up shit did you two get into?"

I must have gotten into too much shit last night, because at this precise moment, Rachel walks through the door of the kitchen wearing a pair of my old sweats and a captain's jacket with Fabray sewn into the front pocket. Her hair is still a tangled mess, protruding from the bun that sits sloppily on her head. She looks at me with wide, fearful eyes, and I look back at her the same. She doesn't say anything after that just fixes herself a plate of breakfast and sits down at the table to eat it. Though the tension hanging thick between us is palpable to say the least.

The look on Santana's face makes me want to tackle her. I'm surprised the grin she's sporting hasn't completely split her face in two, it's so wide. I may have backed off when it came down to the teasing on sensitive issues with her, but there was no way in hell Santana planned to do the same. It's all too evident in that stupid smirk.

"No….way…." Santana starts dramatically, slinking her way over to the table. She eyes the both of us up and down before continuing, "Oh shit, I can't believe it! Haha! You really did get _fucked up_ with the hostage huh Q? Haha! This is just too fucking good!"

I slink down in my seat as low as I can possibly go and glare vengefully at Santana. This is totally not how I wanted to have this conversation with Rachel.

"So, Berry…How are _you_ this morning? Did my lovely captain show you a good enough time last night aboard the _S.S Trinity_?" Santana interrogates, conveniently placing herself in the open seat next to Rachel. She leaned in, chin resting on her knuckles, waiting for the little divas response. It's a good thing Rachel likes to be the center of attention, because I'm not sure how long Santana will keep this up.

Rachel doesn't respond. She doesn't do anything actually, aside from eating. Her face is stone solid, holding back any emotion she may be feeling behind the thick walls. The only visible sign of distress is in the paleness of her skin that has taken over the natural tan hue I'd seen when she was sleeping. But this could also just be from the hang over. In fact, it seems that if she were to have really felt embarrassed or even upset by this teasing, she would be more likely to color—whether in a blush or with rage. Whatever it is, it's not enough, and causes Santana to try harder for a reaction.

"I like your outfit; it looks so familiar…Where did you get it?"

Still nothing. The girl stares off into the distance, eating her food, as if no one else was even in the room with her. I can't watch anymore. It's like watching some powerful predator circling around its prey before it goes for the kill, only the prey doesn't even know it's even being hunted. Santana tries one more time, trying to cut deep and get under the diva's skin.

"Hey elf! Don't they teach manners where you're from? I asked you a question…that's okay, you don't have to answer. I know where you got it…after all, I am the one who sewed Quinn's name on it…and…can I be honest with you Berry?"

"Leave her alone San…" I throw in, hoping to relieve the girl of any further embarrassment the Latina was sure to bring.

"Why?"

"Because…"

"Because you wanna fuck her again?" There, Santana had finally said it out loud. It is no longer the dirty little secret everyone has to dance around just to have a conversation.

But God, I still hate it when she does that—puts words in my mouth. It aggravates me when anyone does it, but with Santana…I know she does it on purpose. It's just another tool at her disposal that she uses to piss me off. And right now it's definitely doing the trick. Even more so than usual. If I had less self-control, I'd knock her back a peg, but I have to keep reminding myself that I am Quinn Fabray—Captain Quinn Fabray—and the only way to keep order to have order of yourself. I didn't spend all this time earning this title just to squabble it away over something as stupid as a pet peeve. Oh, but would I ever like to teach that bitch a thing or two.

"Anyways," She says, turning back to Rachel, "It looks a hell of a lot sexier on you…especially since it's obvious you aren't wearing anything undernea—OW!"

My head bolts up at the unexpected outcry. Given the high level of energy behind it, I half-expect to see a knife lodged through Santana's throat. But I don't. Only one fuming mad Latina, almost purple with rage and hunched over clutching at something under the table and the still impassive diva who now gathers her things to leave.

"That little bitch kicked me!" Santana says more out of shock than anything. She continues to stare disbelievingly between me, Rachel, and her hurt foot, mouth opened wide with wonder.

I'll admit I'm just as shocked. It's always weird when you wish something to happen to someone and it actually happens. Still, I'm happy someone did something because Santana was starting to get on my last nerve.

"I think I'll just eat in my room." And that is the only thing Rachel says before she's halfway out the door, food in hand. Though the words are not biting in any way, the monotone way in which she says them still cuts something deep inside me. I'm not exactly sure why, or what even; only that this is not the way she should sound.

I stop analyzing it only to hear Santana throw her last minute taunts out the door behind the girl; she's never fully satisfied until she's had the last word, "Well _somebody_ got up on the wrong side of the cage this morning! Hey, when you're done being a bitch, let me know, so I can have animal control put you down nice and easy!" She stumbles over her words in her unpreparedness, "Oh, and I swear to God and every other bullshit fairy tale you can think of, if you EVER kick me again, I will fucking kill you!"

She trudges back to the table, mumbling incoherent rants under her breath, and slams herself into the seat in front of me.

"What are you smiling about Captain bad lay?" Even as she insults my skills in bed, I can't help but revel in her misery for a while. A chuckle slips past my lips before I can even respond, and with the poorest effort I try to suck it back from becoming a full blown laugh. Protecting her feelings from sensitive topics like Brittany is one thing, but when she openly makes an idiot of herself…there's no way I can resist an opportunity like that.

"I think maybe a c—" I attempt snort back the laughter in order to finish what I was saying, "Did the cat grab your tongue back there a minute ago San?"

I still have more to say, but can't manage to get it out through the uproar of laughter that I can no longer hold back. I paw at my gut, powerless to the cramps forming there from my hysteria. It's really not all that funny, but I couldn't stop the boisterous laughter once I started.

"No, but judging by the looks of it, a cat definitely had _yours_ pretty fuckin' busy last night!" This statement effectively sobers me up. She sneers with contentment. I go back to pouting and poking at my food.

And this is why it can be so frustrating when someone puts words into my mouth that I'd never even said…because that's where I keep my feet.

"Wait a minute…_You_ didn't sew my name into my jacket, Brittany did!"

"I know…but _I_ watched—well, eventually I fell asleep so technically I slept while she sewed…but I was in the same room when it happened…"

**Day 30**

**Stage 3: Lethargy (Characterized by a Bad Case of the I-Don't-Give-a-Damns)**

She still hasn't spoken. Not to me, not to Brittany, not to Puck, definitely not to Santana. It's been seven days now in counting. For seven whole days she has yet to speak even one word to anyone.

In fact, I've barely seen her at all. She's been moving about this ship like a ghost lately. Like you know she's here. There's evidence of her presence spread out in bits and pieces all around us: an empty plate here, an old towel there, and nobody else to claim them as their own; the sound of the toilet flushing in the night; or footsteps flitting past your door. But every time you look behind you there's never anybody there. Almost as if you had made the whole thing up and it's just a game being played inside your head.

I don't understand it. And it doesn't worry me in the way you'd think it would, which terrifies me when I start to think about it.

I should be worried that she's ignoring me because we've yet to have that awkward morning after talk to establish what had happened and were we planned to go from there. I've yet to meet a girl who hasn't needed some kind of clarification after something like that. And they always get angrier the longer you put it off. If she were any other girl, I'd be worried because, for one, I'd have to have some stupid talk about something I find too insignificant for a decent conversation; and two, whichever way that conversation swayed, whether we continued to hook up or called it quits, I'm stuck with the bitch in the confines of this ship until we hit land. There's never any telling what she may do and either way, she'll always go crazy. My safety and survival becomes the number one priority.

But this is Rachel Berry we're talking about. And I don't know why, but whatever the reason, she's different.

With her, I'm still very worried. But I'm only worried about her. It worries me that she's not talking. It worries me that she's not eating enough. It worries me that, on the rare occasion in which I do see her, she always looks as if she had been crying; then again, it's hard to really tell because she still covers it all up so well with that same blank stare.

It's the most selfless worry I've ever felt. The only thing selfish about it is the helplessness this makes me feel knowing that there's nothing I can do to make her better. I'd really like to see her get better.


	5. Feel It Out for Once CONT'd

**Hey guys! Sorry it took me so long to post. There was a recent death in my family that threw me off track a little bit. :( But I haven't given up on the story! And I won't! I just ask anyone interested in this story to bear with me. Thank you for the reviews and thank you for reading. :) **

**Note: This chapter is not fully edited. I plan on running through it again to clean it up more tomorrow. I just felt the sudden urge to write, and needed to finish this chapter up so we can finally move on to the next one. lol Please be gentle.**

**Story Rating: M because it's awesome**

**Chapter Rating: This chapter leans more towards the M side for graphic displays of Faberry lovin ;) If this isn't your thing, i encourage you to follow along in this chapter for as long as you can because there is still a lot of good stuff in here.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Day 35: Dear God, Are We There Yet!?<strong>

Excess can be illustrated in many ways. It is currently being displayed in our bathroom, as 'odd things left to dry over the shower rod.' Odd things like: slices of bacon; an old quinceañera dress; and damp pieces of paper that read "Rectangles amuse Gino."

There is no good explanation as to why—God knows we've already tried to explain it to Puck without any consequential success. And only through a patchwork of compromises did he finally agree to let us have our thing, seeing as it only happens in these rare and trying times. I don't understand why he needs an answer. Why everything must be defined for the peace of mind of another.

I guess if there absolutely had to be one, it could easily pass as a shrine to mere personal facts, as in: I like bacon; Santana is cursed with the memories of her treasured teenage years; and Brittany is—well she's just Brittany. I, however, believe that none of these are truly feasible; just another half-assed answer to satisfy another's need to solely define everything. Only filler words. A fancy ploy thought up by the world's best bullshitter. Be it so, I suppose that is why this answer was reserved for Puck. In the end, it got me what I wanted, why change my system?

I'll tell you why; because what good is it being an amazing bullshitter if there is no one around to witness or, even quite possibly, call you out on your bullshit. If the words you say are never viewed as bullshit and are always taken for what they are, then does that not make them just that? A sort of diluted form of the truth? I wish for someone to see through the pretty strings of words I often form. Or else my bullshit will cease to be…well bullshit.

Which leads me to my protracted theory that excess can be illustrated in many ways—our actions only being accurately described in this alone. It is the acute accessibility of time and insomnia that have creatively paved the daunting road to our expression of the word excess. Only, this particular route happens to be one less trodden.

That may be why it comes off as shocking at first glance. But if you look deeper than that, it's no more than a cry for deliverance—a plea to soon be free of these walls. We are on a journey that may be wearing its welcome; a long journey that has us all feeling the unrestrained binds of lunacy in our own unique ways.

Honestly, I'm bullshitting again.

Truthfully, we've been on numerous long voyages before. That is nothing new. However, this particular behavior might be a little less practiced. I mean, we don't typically make it this far into the stages of tomb fever, to where lunacy is expressed through excessive behaviors. Okay, so it's a behavior that is completely new and undiscovered to me and my crew aboard the Trinity. That's why it seems so odd to Puck. And I'm sure if Rachel were still talking to us, it would seem just as odd to her. I mean, I probably wouldn't talk to me if I saw myself hanging a piece of fricken bacon in the shower either! I can hear how crazy I sound is the words alone.

But to Santana, Brittany, and I, it's as natural as a moon to a planet. This is why we don't question or fear it. Everything makes sense in the moment, as yet another piece of bacon is being laid across the shower rod next to the others. Like a visage to fallen counterparts, we three stand there in silent admiration of our handy work. When, out of nowhere, there sounds a faint shuffling of feet coming from somewhere behind us.

I turn to confront the noise I believe to be Puck, ready for another onslaught of the characteristic verbal discouragement he's been displaying lately for our excessive shrine. The last person I expect to see, as owner of those shuffling feet, is Rachel. Though it is undoubtedly her standing there before me now.

I stare at her. She stares back with a gaze, blank enough to chill me. Her normally well-rounded eyebrows now lay flat across her brow, clearly expressing the unexplained abrupt loss of emotional stability that subsequently sent her into an interesting display of a rather odd form of shyness. I have no idea what she wants. She just stands there staring, motionless, aside from lucid breathing and the occasional blink of an eye. Her eyes are just as emotionless as they have been in weeks; only this time they appear a tad more focused, as if they might have something to say. But they're still far too repressed to reveal that message, just as her presence implies.

I'm so entranced with finally seeing her again, that I totally miss the object dangling from her hand. I only recognize its existence as she goes to place it on the shower rod next to my freshly supplied strip of bacon. An old chain link holds tightly to a little golden star charm that dangles freely before my very eyes. I cock my head to the side in curiosity, and before I can answer the suddenly formed question hanging thick in the air, she leaves the room spiritlessly like a soul that wavers in the Valley of the Shadow.

My mind is suddenly weighted with the need to analyze her fought with the recognition that I'll come up short every time I try. It baffles me even more than she does as I obsessively contemplate a reasonable answer. Why is she doing this? What does it mean? Why am I okay to ignore Brittany and Santana's excessive acts of display, content to not questioning them, when Rachel's has me questioning hers so? Why am I fearful of what it might mean? Why am I so unexpectedly engrossed in the "why" of this excessive doing? That is sooooo _not_ my style.

Maybe this is how Puck feels when it comes to us; always so lost in translation. This girl's got me breaking one of my golden rules: don't question people's actions, leaving me frustrated that I'd break it so easily. Though, I haven't been following many of my own rules ever since the very first night I saw her.

And just like that the realization hits me like a meteor shower, _Wait a minute…that's the most she's interacted with you in weeks! Forget about everything else! Don't you know what this means?_

It means that I can now be hopeful. Hopeful that one day, Rachel Berry might talk to me again. Hopeful that I didn't actually break her, like I've been accusing myself of having done for weeks. And though the day peers forth with her blank eyes, the faintest glimmer of hope sparkles in that little star charm hanging on the shower rod next to my supply of bacon.

**Day 36: Hallucinogenic much?**

The turbulence of the ship jolts me awake, and much before I'm ready to do so. Finding the time to sleep is a valuable resource around here. So, I'm not very good with these kinds of disruptions, especially since this is the longest and deepest sleep I've had in weeks—since Rachel stopped talking.

It was only five hours of sleep total. But, like I said, it was the most well spent five hours I've had in a while. And initially, in my half-awake, half-asleep state of mind, I'd like to be aggravated by this. Clinging onto those last remnants of rest my tired body and mind are not yet ready to lose. I'd like to roll back over and slip back into the same deep hypnotic spell as before. Forget about responsibility. Forget about duty for just a little while longer. But I know, as captain of this ship, it would be shameful of me to ignore the noise that sounded alarming enough to have woke me in the first place. What if this thing is actually falling apart? Sleeping through it might become more of an irony at that point.

This is what I bullshit myself so I'm forced to care. My last ditch attempt to roll my lazy ass out of bed and be a damn captain for fucks sake. And since I used the further loss of sleep as threat of not assuring the safety of my ship, I guess I'm a pretty easy sell. Besides, I'll never get it back no matter how hard I force my eyes shut and try. What's lost is lost. Still kind of ironic for my sleep to get interrupted by the threat of no sleep though. Sort of funny, now that I'm a little more coherent to process it more fully.

I still haven't succeeded in fully convincing myself of that.

So, in fumbling over to my closet I grumble with disapproval. One for both being suddenly startled from an almost blissful sleep, and now also participating in annoying early-morning banter with myself. If you couldn't already tell, I'm not really a "morning person."

I throw on a pair of skin-tight, black and grey striped pants with a white tank that is so dirty it could easily pass for grey due to all the grease smudges engrained in the fabric that never came out in the wash. With one quick look in the mirror, I check myself, before heading down to mechanics bay to check for any sign of impending technical difficulties.

I run a hand through my shoulder-length blond hair and sigh heavily at what I see reflected back at me. I look a lot less tired, but the unkindness of the last few years is still barely hidden throughout my face. Or maybe it's all just in my head. Even if I stayed to analyze it, there wouldn't be any sure fire way to find out. I shake my head softly in bereavement before leaving. Yet another downside to living the life of a renegade. Always being on the run leaves little time for frivolities, such as extra sleep. Your body is only allowed to go, go, go, at a constant rate, all the time, with only the bare essentials of rest to power you. It always shows. In and around your eyes especially. And can quickly wipe away any evidence of youth in one good blow. I feel I've been dealt a pretty decent sized blow as I trudge along the hallways, struggling to move the lead weight of my feet.

When I arrive, I drop through the portal, quickly adjust my boots on the steel ladder, and slip down the metal side rungs in one swipe. This always does well to wake me up. I love the tingles that spread wildly throughout my feet as they slam against the hard metal floor of the mechanics bay. A small smile warms my tired face at the loud echo of contact reverberating all around me. Never gets old really.

As I glance around for any immediate emergencies, I can see a little bit of smoke pushing out from a few exhaust pipes, and there looks to be a puddle of some kind forming beneath the warp coils. This is to be expected thanks to the shit job I did at patching up the thruster. It's actually kind of a miracle this thing hasn't already fallen apart by now; considering I still don't have the appropriate resources to fix it the way it needs to be fixed. And I won't have them until we make it to one of the blacklisted planet. It's my fault anyways for insisting she be modified with only the best parts; those being the ones sold illegally on the black market. Suffice to say, she has always flied the fastest and takes the hardest hits while still running like a champ. Realistically I owe this ship more than just a few shoddy repairs.

_I owe her my life three times over_, I think quietly, allowing myself only a brief dabble into the cloudy mirror of opinion.

I grab for my tool belt that hangs on the wall in-between the ladder and the open room and strap it tight around my waist. It's been awhile since I've worn it. It somehow feels lighter than usual as it hangs low around my hips. I rummage through the compartments and pouches to reintroduce myself to all the tools, assuring everything I need is easily within reach. I tend to get fairly lazy with prolonged travel and don't really feel like walking back and forth if I forget a tool. And oddly enough, I'm determined to do this job right. I may not be able to beat out the demon that is my laziness, but I can sure as hell avoid it all together by being fully prepared before the actual work starts. Or at most I could try. At the very least I owe the ship that. I run a finger over all the much larger tools that dangle from the loops of the belt, soaking the memories of what little use I've had of them through my fingertips.

Not too long thereafter, a loud burst of steam screams out from across the room.

"Yeah, yeah…I'm coming! Hold your nuts and bolts will yah!?" I call back to no one in particular before securing my welding goggles to the top of my head. I guess there's just an odd comfort that comes from talking to inanimate objects as if they were human sometimes. I identify with this method of humanization. It serves as a constant reminder that this ship maybe deserves a little more love than she receives. This is a call to show her; to prove it.

I slip up under the first radiator I see spewing steam. The main water pump valve is never easy to find on these things, which is always a source of struggle for me. After minutes of straining to reach and find it, I finally manage to shut it off. This in itself proves to be a most arduous task. I've never much liked the overexertion part of mechanic work. That's why I leave the majority of it up to Puck. And _that's_ probably why everything around here stays broken.

This, however, can't…I still owe the ship more than this…

_Look at me pretending like I've done a big-boy mechanic's worth of work just by turning off the damn pump valve. _

…Or maybe I'm just too bored to let myself be lazy again….

_No matter how hard it kicks my ass, this thing needs waaaaaay more work before it can be accurately written off as complete. You shouldn't be such a little pansy about it anyways. It does nothing for your image as captain. _

Whatever the reason, I'm still feeling motivated enough to get the job done, and it could really use the TLC anyways. So, with a last ditch effort, I tug my goggles down over my eyes and get to fixing.

Bits of metal mixed with sparks and gear oil fly everywhere around me. The heavy grind of steel and copper resonate across the bay. A bead of sweat streams a path through the grim gathered at my temple as evidence of the immense focus applied to the welding job above me. At least this will be a better patch job than my earlier attempt with the thruster. There's got to be pride somewhere in all that right?

Then, just before I finish filling in the last hole, I stop. Everything stops. No more sparks. No more grinding of metal or melting of copper. It creates a wall of silence, needed to scope out what has me brazenly startled. Given that I'm still wedged up under the radiator, _visual _inquiry is automatically thrown out as a viable option. That leaves four other senses that could have originally detected a form of disturbance. And still, only two, sound and smell, make more likely candidates of the four left over.

I push them both to their limit simultaneously to find out which one caught the subtle intrusion first. It seems like the sense I'd want to use most, considering its initial discovery of something not being quite right. I'm still not a hundred percent used to my nasal enhancers yet, and first try to pick out any audible commotion with a well trained ear to the silence of the bay. A second or two of frustration passes where I wish the happening would occur one more time, so I could better identify the subtle identity left to tease the recesses of my mind. I try turning my head slightly to strain the other ear against the quiet.

I smell her before I hear her though.

How could I not with a scent as sweet as hers. Upon the second subtle whiff that alerts me to an approaching presence once more, the initial intrusion becomes easily identifiable. I'd recognize that smell anywhere. No wonder it startled me. It's stored in my memory as a rare personal favorite. Like the sweetest flower that can only bloom one week of the summer every fifteen years, I make it a point to specifically pick it out as fast as I can, whenever it's available for me to do so.

Actually, I feel kind of stupid for not realizing it sooner.

Her scent grows stronger with every inhalation, already starting to play at the inner fabrications of my mind. She always has this effect on me. Sometimes it's easier to hide it than others, but right now, with the excitement of the situation intermixed; I struggle to find that perfect balance between fanaticism and reality. God, how I'd love for this to be reality. I don't want to be teased by the budding possibility of her presence this scent carries any longer. Again, I strain my ear against the silence, emphatically looking for any sound. But I am sadly disappointed.

She doesn't make a sound at all. Not even the light clicking of shoes can be heard tramping across the metal floors as she is most definitely approaching—thanks to that ever oppressive sense of strange sweet odor.

Oh, but her scent is, indeed, quite intoxicating as it holds thick in a veil around my head. I wage a war with this fog that clouds my mind. _Focus Quinn! Listen for the footsteps._ I know they just have to be there! They always are.

Then again, I never hear them. Only lose myself further in the ever-approaching aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, and Rachel that threatens to nestle into the inner respites of my soul and claw its way out in one of the most passionate splays of up rises.

She is ghost-like in her approach; her glorious scent being the only evidence that she's even really there. And it scares me. But not in the way you'd think.

Half of me still wants desperately to hear the clicking of a heal, anything to know this is real to confirm that I'm not crazy. The other half prays that I don't; content with being crazy as long as it means she's not really as close as she is right now—smelling as tortuously sweet as she does. Because I'm not quite sure what I'll do if I come out from under this radiator to greet her—when I get out from under this radiator. There is no doubt in my mind that I will the moment I feel she's close enough. Her scent is compelling enough as it is to lure me out in minutes. And right now, as crazy as I feel, only God knows what I would do once I don't have the safety of the radiator to block me. I don't know what I'm more scared of, this being the moment where I become certifiably insane or the fear of finding out which side of me wins. Though I'm not quite sure I'd have much say in the matter, given the option either way.

I can feel the divine scent ensnaring me into it like a rat in a trap. The world slows down around me, and as if in slow motion, I gradually resurface from my place beneath the radiator. I am drawn out from my work, out of my mind, dangerously slow, until my eyes catch up with the rest of my senses and find her towering above where I sit on the floor. Her eyes dark as the purest cocoa; face wild with unburdened hollowness. She's as beautiful as the dawn, and as dominant as the sun as her scorching stare warms my skin.

You could tell from the start that Rachel Berry seemed like the type of girl to wear an unbridled amount of emotions on her sleeve; as if it were natural for the girl to have been born with her heart beating from where she so casually wears it on her shoulder. Anyone with eyes can see everything she's feeling at any given moment. I'm almost certain there's a definitive face for every specific emotion she feels that might even be delicately catered to each situation she faces on a day to day basis.

But she wasn't that girl today. The girl that stands before me doesn't seem like that type here and now. Her face is passionless, like those forged by sculptors graved for niches in a temple. Her eyes sheer and her beauty softened by the air of sluggishness and abstraction. I don't even notice that I'm holding my breath in admiring silence.

An impulsive shudder of fear runs through my nerves like the chill of an icy wind. I'm almost frightened of what seems to be a stranger standing before me. A girl so different from the one I'd come to know since that day on Lima, that I rub at my eyes furiously still not quite sure if I've reached the hallucinogenic stage of tomb fever.

And while remnants of grease and oil from the machines start to burn my eyes to what I'm sure must now be a blood-shot haze, I still can't stop wiping at them in rapt attempt to find that little girl from Lima.

She is nowhere to be found. The girl before me has Rachel's distinctive scent. God, I've come to memorize it better than the backs of my eyelids. Yet, it's as if _this_ girl has found a way to brush her heart clear off her shoulder so that I might not see her as she once was. She has masked herself with an unknown countenance and I can no longer place the face with the name. I am quiet and unsure of what to do in her presence. Confused by how I can still be so drawn to her essence through my lingering senses. Perturbed by this stranger's presence, yet still so stirred by the fragments of Rachel left interweaved.

A shadowy and chilling sentiment unaccountably creeps over me, wrought of an emotion infectious and splendidly dangerous. In an unguarded moment, I become imprisoned within this enchanted circle. So many times I find beauty maddens the soul like wine. My spirit beats itself like a caged bird against its prison bars in vain.

A fleeting thought to lessen the burdens of my weighted chest, _God forgive me for whatever I might do._

She is patient with my inner dialogue; a patience worthy of admiration. Another 'Rachelistic' characteristic to leave me all the more confused. She stands there eyeing me with a frosty calm. With her head tilted slightly to the side as if she wants me to believe she's doing so out of curiosity rather than amusement. Tiny hands tucked loosely into the tightest pair of cut-off denim shorts I've ever seen. The kind that make her legs look as if they should start at the very ground she's standing on and would go on continuously if it weren't for the tiny cloth that covered them.

It takes me a minute to snap out of my most curvy road trip, before I recognize that those shorts are mine. That shirt is mine! The crisp white button down. It's tight and relatively form-fitting on me, but not as much so on her. Though it's hardly noticeable, and looks as if it were meant to drape lifelessly across her body. The long sleeves are rolled up, showing off the tanned skin of her forearms. On top of my shirt, she's wearing my old black, double-breasted short waistcoat, unbuttoned up to the hilt. I've never been so proud to see my clothes on anyone before. My vision darkens imperceptibly at the thought of how much prouder I might be to see them off…

Suddenly, I'm snuffed out in the middle of ambitious schemes.

The light touch of finger-tips brush the underside of my chin, pulling my eyes and thoughts away from those glorious legs that I can't quite seem to recall the reason I started staring at in the first place.

"It isn't polite to stare." Her eyes are still solid as stone, though her words flow smooth from her mouth like wavelets on a summer shore.

"I—don't—never—" My hurrying thoughts clamor for utterance. But nothing comes out. At least not coherently…not now.

I'm usually better with this kind of thing. Always down for a good tease. Always first to break a tease with pre-prepared witty remarks. Not now. The only thing I can manage is a few stuttered gasps and a wordlessly moving mouth; the inarticulate echo of my longing.

Abashed into silence, my mind is erased clean with Rachel's impending closeness. My brain can only focus on three things: breathing, blinking, and all perceived sense of the girl that is slowly drawing closer with every breath and blink. Little by little, any and every other function I may have once known withdraws from my memory bank, replacing the space with little deposits of Rachel.

I open my mouth to attempt words once again, but am immediately stopped by the very same finger that once supported my chin. If I could find words, I'd tell her about the way it leaves a light imprint across my mouth as she shushes me into stillness, and how it reminds me of what those finger nails felt dancing across my skin under the dim lights of the rugged bar. I'd make her believe she was as delicious as she is.

"Haven't you heard, my dear captain?" She says so quietly, it could only be made out in wisps of air released from her mouth that is now so very close to my own. Not even the finger between us served as a barrier to the soft words as they brushed so sweetly across my skin, "Politeness wins the confidence of princesses," she continues in the same tone as before, though I'm not allowed as much time to bask in these words as easily.

Her finger slides from its place on my mouth, delicately tracing the outline of my lips to where they end at my cheek; to where she lingers a few leisurely seconds. Involuntary shivers jolt across my entire body. My eyes shut of their own accord, content upon letting me bask in each of my senses one at a time. If I were to look, I'm sure I'd see the start of goosebumps breaking across my skin in response to her light touch. However the chilly pinprick feeling they leave behind as they rise seems so much more exquisite that I wouldn't dare chance losing this sense of touch right now with the curse of sight, should my eyes deceive me.

Between the light pants of breath nipping at my cheek and the sweet smell of the air that drifts among us I am aware of how much closer she has gotten. I sneak a peek at those kiss-provoking lips, exquisitely stung by the thought.

And with the most feather-like of touches, my lips are suddenly warmed by the tortuous feel of silken skin. It is almost unnoticeable at first, just the lightest brush of skin across skin. The continuity of the action is the only thing that makes it real, and that warmth spreads like wild fire from my lips throughout my entire body. It burns through each and every one of my limbs with every brush of contact, further jolting my body to life as if it had never truly lived before.

A shiver of apprehension crisps my skin. Soon, I begin to curse my sense of touch as well, and can no longer stand the heat of the fire this has caused; fearful that I might become just as lost in this sense as I have in each and every other. When really, it's already too late to fear that now.

Our lips continue the slowest and lightest of dances, leaving behind the strangest feeling inside me with every connection that fails to give me more. It's as if I can feel that emptiness I had seen in her eyes pouring into my veins every time our lips touched. Panic fills the more remote chambers of my brain with riot.

This feels so much more different than it appears. It's like there is a black hole inside me that I never knew existed. And all of a sudden, with the simplest touch of Rachel's lips it is revealed to me in an over-whelming surge of powerful void. It consumes everything inside of me to the most barren of feelings and leaves me emptier than I've ever been before-than I've ever known I could be before. But this is not the normal feeling of emptiness. It's the kind of void that leaves you in constant craving of more. More of what? I don't know. Probably more of the thing that brought this feeling to life inside me in the first place. More of Rachel. As if these few little kisses opened this dark hole inside me, and it will not close until it has consumed all of that which has given it life.

Plumbing the depth of my own fears, I press her into a more complete kiss; locking our lips tightly together. I draw her luscious lower lip gently between my teeth, tasting all the sweetness it holds as selfishly as possible on my tongue. A breath of a whimper slides its way into my mouth. And as she fists the collar of my tank into her hands, I can feel my own deep moan resonate through hers in response. Our little sounds of needy approval reflecting each in the other like stars in a lake.

There's a small tug at the part of my shirt that's bunched in her hands and I immediately rise to my feet to follow its pull, still careful not to break any contact between our hungry mouths. She tugs me to her so roughly and I come up from the ground so quick that the weight of my body forces hers to stumble backwards until her back hits the wall of the mechanics bay with an audible thud; hurriedly leaping from soft flame into eager and passionate fire.

She ceases the kissing only to gasp at the contact and brute force; buffeted by the winds of passion. For a second it seems as if it might have knocked the wind out of her as she watches me with a wide-eyed surprised expression.

But then her head drops back against the wall and her eyes roll into the back of her head as a feral moan leaks from her open lips that forever sing itself in memory. Lips that look ready to be kissed again. Lips that look like they need that contact once more. A dazzling completeness of beauty. My heart pounds in my throat.

The wind wasn't knocked out of her because of the force felt between me and the wall. She's gasping for air because of the way our hips have come together in the process. Her lashes like fans upon her cheek. I bask in her answering glow of gratitude. I hadn't even noticed that I had pressed myself so fully into her, until I followed her questioning gaze down to the contact between them.

Our cores kiss through the fabric of our pants more passionately than the kiss we were locked in only minutes ago. The feelings I felt before becoming ten times more intense by the second; transforming into volcanic upheavings of imprisoned passion. And god does it feel good to be pressed up against her this way. Knowing that just past the thin layers of cloth rests the source of heat and wetness that I feel pressed deliciously against my crotch.

My mind reels with all the possibilities. My senses on high alert, all fighting for control at once. Her scent thick in the air around me, causing my eyes to glaze over into a fit of lust, so much so that it is becoming difficult to see correctly through them. It is truly torture of the most exquisite kind.

As wondrous as this feels, my jeans soon become restricting with the promise of her so close. I have to pull my hips away from hers, just for a moment, so that I might get some air circulating between the inferno raging between us. So I might remember what breathing is again. So that she might finally take that breath she's needed to take. Because God knows neither one of us has breathed once since the moment we fell into this position.

She whimpers at the loss of contact in this breathless chase of pleasure. I bite my lip to suppress a growl deep in my chest as her hands claw at my ass, begging for me not to go.

I know how she feels. It's just as difficult for me to pull away. A coolness washes over my burning core that I know is from my own wetness soaking through my panties and it makes me uncomfortable. So uncomfortable, my hands jump up to grasp her face and I rest my forehead against hers to support all these ailments sending signals through my brain. My eyes are closed, my brows knit in concentrated thought. The longer I withhold my hips from giving in to their most carnal desire, the harder my body starts to shake. Like a wandering star I fall through the depths of desire.

Deep, shallow breaths hit my cheek in little puffs of frustrated whimpers. She feels me shaking in her arms and desperately clings to my ass in attempt to break the tension that has caused me to do so.

If I had truly wanted to stop this, I wouldn't have closed my eyes, for my sense of touch is blinding my ability to focus on anything other than drilling into her as hard and fast as I can. It's taking every ounce of control I have left not to do so to her now. I want to feel her again so bad it almost hurts to hold myself back any longer.

I give in to my desire. The ache that is caused from the lack of contact is slowly chipping away at my resolve. Slowly driving me mad with uncontrollable want for this angel before me.

I don't move as fast as my mind and body are telling me to—fearful that it may be too much, too soon—but I do grind myself swiftly back into her, letting our hips come together once more in a kiss that only they can do.

This time I release a moan along with her, almost coming undone by the feel of the sudden sweet contact alone. I continue to shiver, though they come from the quakes of static ecstasy currently rippling beneath my skin. Static that sends small frequencies through the waves that flow to the heat at my crotch. Frequencies that transmit my body's demand that I press into her as hard as I can. A feeling seizing tyrannously upon the soul.

My head becomes heavy with arousal and drops down to her shoulder as I give in to my body's command; grinding my hips further into hers in a manner nervously anxious to please. With a rather large intake of breath, she clutches at my shoulder blades. Her legs widen on instinct. Ready for more pressure. Pleading for utmost contact.

Her right thigh slips up my side until it's wrapped securely around my leg as I allow my hand to fall and support it. Not that it needs any. She's clinging to me so tight that I could let go and she wouldn't even budge. I guess it's there more because I've been dying to grasp those wicked legs in my hands since the moment I got an eyeful of her in my shorts.

My fingers slide along the backs of those delicious thighs and stop to give a light squeeze mere inches from where they truly want to be. She sings the sweetest whimpers against my ear in response. Her beauty fervent as a fiery moon. I'm too turned on to turn back now. I am at her mercy. She could ask me to do anything and I do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked. Yet somehow, I have the unfamiliar urge to give her that one out; as half-hearted as it may be. Her dignity counsels me to stop and I obey with commendable restraint.

"Rach, what are you—" I start to ask against her, surprising myself that I went the 'play innocent' route. She doesn't let me finish though. Her hips begin to grind a steady rhythm in response against me instead.

"Shhhhh, not now Quinn," She whispers back against my ear, nipping at my earlobe along the way. She continues to grind herself furiously against me, working herself up to what I can only anticipate to be a heavenly escape. A weak protest wavers on my lips.

"But Rach…" I don't know what it is, why I feel the need to stop this so badly. Why I'm fighting the wondrous jolts of pleasure this is causing within me.

I guess I can't help but feel slightly wrong here. I mean, I've never felt this way before during sex. I'm a pirate! I see what I want and I take it, no ifs ands or buts. I'm not feeling as confident now though. Something about the tiny brunette makes me want to hold back. Makes me feel like she deserves something more. As if I'm destroying something beautiful, like a flower that lives throughout an entire winter. As if something this beautiful wasn't ever meant for someone like me.

But before I can say these thoughts out loud, I am stopped dead in my tracks by the long slow grind of her body on my thigh and the animalistic roar that follows. My mouth is still open to talk, but I've easily forgotten everything that was supposed to have come out. Her eyes flutter open and scan the features of my face.

"Geez Fabray, must you keep talking?" she gasps, thinking that I'm about to start again. Though it's only an illusion. I can't remember what words are again, much less respond after that display. She feels so good against my—WAIT!

_Oh right…this is wrong….I feel bad…stop now…you idiot…_

I struggle through my arousal and somehow find an ounce of self-control amongst the fog. But only an ounce.

"Berry! As your captor and commander of this ship, I order you to—"

"Okay, let's stop the whole captain-prisoner act, because honestly, nobody's really getting off on that…" she pants against my ear like a great tune to which the planets roll. She's only riding me harder, holding onto the back of my neck to keep us pressed closely together, as well as a form of support as her body writhes against mine methodically like the slithering of a snake. She feels so magical grinding against me. The feel of our breasts crushed together through the joint fabric of our shirts. When her stomach brushes into mine at the apex of every grind….

_NO!_ I summon the tiniest crumb from what's left of that ounce of self-control. I'm breaking fast. I'm just as close as she is.

"I just want to understand what's going on." I say with a firmness tempered by the most scrupulous courtesy_. I can do this!_ A misconception which is singularly prevalent. I only have enough strength to half-heartedly stop this Goddess ridding me now.

She has stopped her urgency. And I'm not relieved or convinced that what I said has caused this. It's too good to be true. And I wasn't fighting hard enough for it to even matter. I'm lulled into a sense of false satisfaction; a sort of calm before the storm if you will.

My eyes are unconsciously drawn to hers as if she'd willed me to look up. I'm burning, once more under her intense gaze. Sweating with the amount of effort it's taking to see this through. Her fingertips brush the back of my hand that still rests on her thigh.

At first it seems as if she's only trying to remove it, seeing as my grip on her thigh proved to be the unyielding factor as to why we are still connected so intimately. My eyes clench shut and I swallow a large gulp at the loss of contact as her leg slips mischievously back down the side of my body to the floor.

We stand there for a while, motionless. I'm assuming it's because she can sense my severe hesitance and is giving me the time I need to pull away from her body that still remains wedged between the wall and my own. I don't know, I cannot see her through my closed eyes. I refuse to see her, knowing she will only crush this crumb of self-control to smithereens with one more of her smoldering glances.

She never did let go of my hand and I don't think too much of it at first when I feel her moving them towards her body together somewhere. It seems like a caring gesture one might do to comfort another person. That is, until I feel the waistband of those tiny jean shorts playing seductively at my fingers.

I bury my face further into her neck and clench my eyes closed tighter. The scent of roses stole in with every breath of air. Why I think this will help me resist is totally beyond me. Maybe it's like the whole "If I can't see you, you can't see me," bit we all used to rely on to get past tough situations as kids. Maybe I'm just a fucking idiot when it comes to Rachel and make the dumbest choices when she's near. I'm betting on the latter, because my hand is being directed further into her jeans and the panties that lie beneath and I'm not doing anything to stop it. That and the luscious scent coming from where my nose is nuzzled into the soft patch of skin behind her ear are driving my senses up the wall. She's crushing that last crumb of self-control between her fingers with, what I know to be a most glittering infectious smile.

A shrill moan claims the air around us as my fingers steadily reach the wet heat of her core. I'm not entirely sure who the sound even came from at this point. I'm not entirely sure I even care.

"There! Is that answer enough for you?" She husks out in a deep gasp for air. Her free hand clutching back to my back again as if she were on the edge and not quite ready to fall off yet. She soon gives up on her attempt to direct my hand and settles for a tight grip on my forearm instead. I think she likes the way the muscles flex in her palms as I search my way through her folds. They quiver beneath my fingertips with every contraction.

I almost forget I'd been asked a question, and immediately nod my head in the crook of her neck. Rubbing my nose lightly along the skin there, brushing my lips across the trail it makes.

"Then just shut up and fuck me already!" That's all I wanted her to say. It's all I needed in order to cave. There's no going back now. No way to stop myself. I still and trample on the inward protests. She feels too good in my hands. Sounds too delectable to my ears. Tastes so eloquent on my tongue. I will give her anything she asks for.

Another moan drifts into the air like the promise of a home-cooked meal fresh from the oven. Again, I can't tell who it came from. Again, I don't care.

She is so sopping wet for me, my fingers are easily coated with her thick juices in seconds. It could have very well been my own moan of approval for the prize I feel I've been given in my hand. Although the sound she makes as I wiggle my finger imploringly over her little pleasure button may prove otherwise with its familiarity ringing throughout my ears. I want to make her do that again.

"Oh!"

And Again.

"OHmmm!"

And once more.

"AHuhah!"

It's such a beautiful sound, the best song she could ever sing. I'm so caught up in my determination to hear more, and she's so slick with arousal that I accidently lose control of my finger and it slips easily into her swollen canal. I hadn't heard the best yet….

"Uunnngghh!" She calls out, breaking my resolution like a twist of rotten silk.

I pull my head away from her neck to see the effect this has on her. I need to see what I do to her. To see her face as I feel her clench around me and suck me in as if it will never be enough. Her back arches, launching her stomach into mine roughly. Her head drops back against the wall, eyes shut, and mouth stuttering wordlessly all the pleasure she feels erupting inside her. Her hand squeezes tight to the stilling muscles in my forearm.

My finger lays dormant inside her giving my eyes the chance to catch up to everything that's happening around me. I look down through the small wedge of space she's allowed to form between us and see my arm leading down to the front of her shorts. In my mind, I know it stretches even farther than what my eyes can see and chills spike across my spine at the thought of what that means.

I wiggle my finger just a smidge deeper inside her and immediately she springs back to life with small moans and whimpers. I almost come undone at the sight. Honestly, right now, I don't really need anything else and I could still have the most intense orgasm ever if she would just fall over the edge screaming my name first.

Unfortunately, nature always has a way of calming even the most vicious of storms. And today she sent it in the form of Santana Lopez, loud and intruding across the holocomm screen.

"Q! Stop fuckin around and get your ass up to the cockpit! We're here!"

My heart leaps from my chest with the blast of her raspy voice coming from the corner directly above us. Rachel shrieks in my arms, suddenly becoming more and more self-conscious of her position by the second.

Mental to do list top-priority item #1: kill Santana Lopez. Effective immediately.

"Yeah, Yeah San. Gimme a sec, I'm busy!" I try to cover, hoping that my body is blocking any view the Latina may have of the little brunette hiding from embarrassment in my arms.

"Okay, just hurry we—Wait a second…" _oh shit _"Whatcha got there Quinnie?" She purrs deviously into the intercom. I can see her face growing larger on the screen as she sits forward to get a better look, "You take a little field trip to the petting zoo there Captain? You know the signs say don't feed the animals right?"

This moment has now been officially obliterated. All the sexual frustration slow-boils into a pot of bubbling anger. Every nerve in my body seems like a strained harp-string ready to snap at a touch. I'm so caught up, that I almost forget about Rachel; who is sagging quite dejectedly into my arms. I notice a flame of scarlet creeping in swift diagonal across her cheeks before she buries her face in my chest; most likely trying to hide herself from the universe in shame. And suddenly, unlike before, an undefined sadness appears to have fallen about her like a cloud that sends us spiriling back into how we were only hours ago: a stubborn pirate, frustrated by the mystifying ways of the gloomy, sheltered captive. I'm sad to see this other side of the brunette go so soon. She disappears with a vanishing loveliness as tender as the flush of the rose leaf and as ethereal as the light of a solitary star.

Eventually she peaks up at me through the unmasked batteries of her glorious brown eyes. Now more than ever, they reveal all her inner makings as if she clearly means for me to see them. She wants me to see the affectionate, kindness of her heart. The seriousness of her disposition; her generosity and easy to take advantage of nature. It's on display so I can know, without a doubt, who she is. So I can almost understand why she's responding in this way. She wants me to see the hurt shrouded throughout the first marked embarrassment. I can see it as if I were feeling it myself; the same conflict of interest bubbling inside my own chest. My stomach turns with the thought that I caused this feeling inside her. I should fix this. I should look deeper inside her to try and find out how; give her every ounce of my attention until I've healed the wounds inside her. I wish I could pay her more attention, but Santana's chides and cackles from above distract me from doing so.

Sadly, I'm always powerless against the dark inner-most need to protect and defend my own insecurities. I am not like Rachel. I can't just put myself on the spot with the blink of an eye. I won't. And this selfish need to protect myself from the outside world first may be the breaking point in this thing I've started with Rachel. Hell, it's even considered cold-hearted enough that I may never know what it's like to be in any type of relationship with anyone. More than likely, I could die tomorrow, purposely guarded by the shell of a handcrafted image, and not missed at all. People would now celebrate my abscence, instead of crying out betrayal in moments like these when I fail to stand by their side. The instinct to survive consumes me. And I realize that, yes, while I maliciously fight to maintain this fashioned idea of survival, I may regain the heightened sense of control that I'd once lost, but I will never have anyone or anything to feel in control of if I continue to destroy everything in my way just to have the ability to feel this way time and time again. At the same time, a man is only as good as his image out here. I'm alive and on top because they see only what I want them to see of me. In reality, I am no more an honest-dealing woman than the lies that coat my body and the success that comes from those I've deceived. Here in this world of either criminals or politicians. When really, at the end of the day, is there even a difference between the two?

It is the little brunette in my arms that remind me of what I really am. That literally makes me sick of who I've become in what I've always thought was just another way to survive. In this moment I can actually feel myself changing. I can feel myself wanting to protect something other than myself for a change. I wrap a comforting arm around Rachel and flip the holoscreen transmission of Santana a bird before turning it off completely. Rachel is that solitary display of the purest lily, blooming in a way that could bring a tear to your eye as you wander aimlessly through the barren wasteland of life; placed there as a reminder from God that there is, indeed, still beauty out there if only you'd just keep searching. She is my lily. And I may be a ruthless, scumsucking, brute of person, but even the worst of the worst human beings would be dumb as shit to crush the gift of beauty, on the rare occassion it is given to them. It comes to us each differently, and may not happen for some of us, unfortunately. But one thing's for sure, whether we turn out good or bad, we spend our lives fighting for it in some way, shape, or form. Men would kill for it once they've finally found it. Most spend what's left of their lives dying to maintain the beauty once they've found it. And looking at Rachel right now, while it might be too soon for me to feel quite as strongly as most men, I could see myself wanting to die for her one day. I can feel my selfishness slowly slipping away to create a shelter for the beautiful little lily that I've found.

Without the Latina's rude laughter, the only audible sounds are coming from the loud pipes and radiators of the engine bay around us. Funny how it has never seemed as loud as it does now. Even funnier how these sounds never existed at all only minutes ago. My eyes twinkle with reminiscent pleasantry.

This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. I'm no good with comforting people. I'm only good at doing—at messing up. I've never had to fix something after I broke it. Again, my lifestyle has allowed me to be quite flexible in that arena. Once it's broken, I sigh and move on to the next one. My life is about getting by and doing the bare minimum required to do so. Not about catering to other people's needs and emotions. If I did that, I'd be out of a job and I wouldn't be getting by. I don't really think anyone in this universe is pure to that extent. Everyone takes advantage of others to stay ahead of the game. It's survival of the fittest. Every species' natural instinct is to live over all the others. And even in my epiphany moment, I still am not practiced enough in the art of expressing myself. I still have no idea how to communicate these things to someone else...I've never had to before.

I open my mouth to speak and once again I am speechless. Only this time it has nothing to do with being caught up in my feelings, it's quite the opposite actually. It's because I'm emotionally retarded. I've turned into the world's biggest dumbass when I so much as try to put the conclusion in my head into words for her to hear. This just frustrates me more; causes the anger to reboil in my chest at my failed portrayals of expression.

For the most part she has successfully avoided making eye contact. But we both know she can't hold out forever. And when she does, the old Rachel is back. Wearing the same whirl-wind of emotions on her sleeve, heart beating rapidly perched atop her shoulder. No longer reserving herself to just one at a time. I'm relieved by the familiarity I have with this Rachel. At the same time, the majority of the feelings decorating her eyes still appear hurt. And this is why I know I've done wrong. I don't exactly know how and I don't exactly know why. But I do know that I hate myself even more right now for ever bringing that look to Rachel Berry's eyes.

She doesn't wait for me to find my words before she's pushing me away and clambering up the ladder, leaving me behind. It's only as I feel the loss of warmth from her body that I stop trying to find them. And so I don't think twice before chasing after her all the way to the cockpit. Man I could strangle my co-pilot right now. It's as if she doesn't understand the concept of 'shut up.'

"Well hello, hello my little pet… and how are you this fine morning?" Santana pesters Rachel, who instantly sits down in a random passenger seat and glares back. "Well, somebody got up on the wrong side of the cage this morning. Told you not to feed the animals, Q."

"Aw, Quinn…you went to the zoo without me?" Brittany whines from behind her computer screen. And as funny as this strikes me, I don't find the time to laugh or address it as anything other than another predictable response.

"Cut it out Lopez! Or else!" I warn the snarky Latina, "And I'm sorry Britt-Britt, I'll be sure and remember to invite you next time." I promise Brittany quickly. I know if I try and correct her I'll just have to explain the whole story piece by piece so she'll understand. And right now isn't really a good time to relive that just yet. Especially when Rachel has gone back to complete silence looking torn as ever. This doesn't suggest I'd willingly be mean to the poor blond either. You can chalk it up to my sudden desire to turn a new leaf or whatever you'd like, but I have always assured that I treat Brittany with the utmost of delicacy. So, maybe I've kinda always had it in me. It doesn't make it any less freightening to realize.

Finding the abrupt onslaught of emotion extremely exhausting, I slump into the seat next to Santana and start adjusting the nobs and switches on my dashboard, trying to forget everything that has happened up to this point. I'm still brand new to this. There is only so much I can take in one sitting before I start to feel overwhelmed.

"Puck! Status Report!"

"We are 2 kilometers outside the jump gate Cap'n."

"Brittany! This is jump point Alpha Gamma five oh Charlie Omega. Do you confirm?"

"Si, Si Captain Quinn."

"Destination reached. Engage throttle?" Santana asks, quickly falling into her professional role. It's easy to do when flying a bird like this. We all get so caught up in it, the camaraderie comes naturally.

Our jobs are the one thing we all have in common and the bond it has created between us has surprisingly turned out stronger than anyone could have initially guessed. This is where I feel the safest. I may not trust any of these people, especially with something as valuable as my self-worth, but it is very much true that I hold a great deal of value in what we've created here. I'd _at least_ be hesitant to leave it behind given the chance.

Unexpectedly, I feel warm breaths beating down on my neck. I turn my head in confusion to find Rachel who is hovering behind me, trying to look out the front shields and find what we'd been talking about. The struggle to find evidence of any destination written clear across her face.

"What's up buttercup?" Santana purrs from beside me to a confused Rachel.

"I thought you said we're here." She responds disconcertedly.

"I most certainly did, legs…and that's because we are…" I shoot Santana a warning glare for calling the diva 'legs.' But not because I'm jealous or anything. She was rude for saying it…yeah. She needs to stop calling Rachel anything other than the name she was given at birth. For Christ sake, this is the 22nd century; we're fucking pirates, not barbarians!

Santana gives me a look of 'what? Like you didn't notice too' and sticks her tongue out in refute. Rachel is still hovering behind me struggling to understand.

"We're at a jump gate captive Rachel," Brittany answers as if it were the most common sense thing in the world. Which is good she did or else the poor girl would have never gotten a response seeing as Santana and I get so easily pulled into a tongue war like rival five-year-olds on a playground.

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand."

"You know…a jump gate," Rachel only stares blankly at the blond navigator who still assumes what she's revealed is common knowledge.

"She doesn't know what a jump gate is B," Santana calls out soothingly at the now equally perplexed blond, "That stuff's only known by cool people like us because _some people_ don't like that it's off the maps remember?"

"Oh, yeah!" Brittany chimes smiling widely, taking Santana's not-so-subtle hint. She turns her attention back to Rachel and suddenly becomes more somber, "I'm not authorized to tell you what a jump gate is captive Rachel, because they are illegal to use and we use them anyways."

Brittany shakes her head once as she finishes assuring she's gotten her point across effectively and then turns back to her screen. Santana slaps a hand to her face and sighs in frustration. We've all been trying to work with Brit and her secret-keeping ability, but she never has been very good at it no matter what we do or say.

"It's okay, we can tell her B." I call back, smiling down at Santana who is still actively shaking her head hidden by her hands.

"Oh, okay. Whatever you say Captain Fabray!" She chants with a sloppy salute. Then she turns back to Rachel, crosses her legs in front of her, and leans forward excitedly as if about to tell the most amazing fairytale, "Jump gates are wormholes randomly spread out through space that jump you from one galaxy to the next super fast. They're illegal cause they're invisible to the human eye and the Coalition doesn't like that they can't see them or when people go through them. Especially since they are constantly moving and all. Also cause the majority of the wormholes connect the blacklisted planets with Coalition territory. They really get mad when the blacklisted planets don't stay banished to their side of the universe. But I don't see what the problem is, cause they're real fun to fly through and they make my tummy all fluttery."

Rachel seems like she understands a little better, but as if she's still struggling to grasp the more technical aspect that Brittany, being Brittany, has trouble explaining in detail.

"Approximately one minute approach time Cap'n!" Puck interjected, eyes wide on the destination ahead of them.

"Look here little bit, alls you need to know is it's a big fuckin hole that sucks shit through it really really fast and spits it out to the planet we wanna be at. So you might wanna sit your pretty little ass down and buckle up real quick like before we hit this thing or you're really going to regret Puck's medical skills when you wake up," Santana says as we both focus on setting all the controls on our dashboard to prepare for the ride.

"You really need to stop being mean to me Santana, because it's really starting to get on my nerves! I mean, I only asked a fucking question! You don't have to be such a bitch all the time!" Santana stirs beside me. There's nothing the Latina hates more than getting called a bitch. The only thing that might come remotely close is her hatred of death or getting injured.

We'd conveniently left out the part about the Coalition outlawing their use because of how extremely dangerous they are. And how the survival rates aren't really all that high. Not that we have anything to worry about. We've figured out the perfect configurations for these things and have jumped them dozens of times without a problem. Santana's knowledge of this, mixed with her determination to do this according to plan and survive, keeps her at bay...and allows the tiny diva another day of life.

"Your mouth is getting a little too big for your muzzle, you know that!? Now sit the fuck down or suffer Puckerman's surgical wrath, it's up to you! I don't have time for this shit, I've got a ship to steer!" Rachel huffs at the Latina's snarky comment and crosses her arms defiantly behind me. I knew this was the worse Santana would do. Though Rachel should be more careful later when it's not life or death. I can't guarantee her safety as much then. Santana just might fight her way through me to tear the little diva up. No one's ever been brave enough to ever try and push her that far before...yet.

I turn away from the controls for a second to deal with the defiant diva instead, "Seriously though Rach…you really should take a seat and buckle up. The impact of entrance alone could be enough to kill you." She meets my eyes with a look that implies she wants to give in, but is still struggling with her pride. To coax her further I place a gentle hand on her arm and give her the best look of concern I can muster, "Please Rachel...for me?"

I want to forcibly place her in her seat against her will. That little naggling of the newly discovered affection inside me seeks to dominate her with what I believe to be the right decision. I want her to live. If I had to hurt her a little to save her from being severely damaged or, worse yet, killed...then I'd do it in a heartbeat, without any remorse.

Luckily for the sanity of us both, she sighs and storms off back to her seat. A sigh of relief escapes _my_ lungs. I give her a small smile before quickly turning back to the controls and configuring the final touches for impact. Puck counts down:

"7"

"6"

"5"

"4"

"3"

"…2"

"AND…"

Everyone is sucked back into their seat from the pull of the force that hits us. I never got to check to see if Rachel got buckled in okay, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't the slightest bit worried about her. But the force of these things is so strong that for the remaining fifteen minutes none of us will be able to so much as bat an eyelash. It's almost like we're going so fast that we're defying all the rules of physics and time has slowed down so much so it takes the entire trip just to blink.

Eventually we are thrown roughly forward into our seat harnesses signaling that we've exited the wormhole successfully. Jump gates tend to cause a little disorientation, so we take a second to gather ourselves before calling the next step.

"Land HO!" Brittany is the first to spot Perdu X—the nearest blacklisted planet to our current location.

We're very close. Which was kind of unplanned, though we had no way of telling exactly where we'd come out other than this quadrant. Some call it being in the right place at the right time, some call it dumb luck. I like to call it, 'thank God we are finally close to real food and civilization!' But whatever….

"Nice and Easy San. Let's take this baby groundside," I encourage my co-pilot as she helps steer us in to the planet's gravitational orbit for landing.

The docks on a blacklisted planet are significantly different than any of the planets within Coalition borders. There are no rules here. No regulations. No codes to follow. With nights of fathomless blackness, and days that could beat the darkest nights. A weird world full of morbid horrors, fettered by poverty and toil. Here it is truly every man for himself, and only the strongest survive. Literally, anyone can do anything and they don't have to answer to anyone other than the person they may have done it to. This is our life. This is our home. We all simultaneously breathe in that breath of familiar relief after we settle the Trinity securely in the landing cradle. I make sure to make eye congratulatory eye contact with each of my crew members, of whom remind me with their own gaze in response who it is they will remain loyal to during our stay in the wild...their captain. This is our routine. I reassure them that we are safely landed and they reassure me that they have my back no matter what. A continuation of what can only be described as our own little fucked up safety net.

However, I stray from this routine when I finally look back to check up on Rachel. She's gripping the arm rests of her seat with a death grip and her face reflects that of pure terror. I'm sure the congratulatory eye contact that is traditionally reserved for my crew will mean absolutely nothing to her at this point. And being that I'm about as good at acting outside of routine as I am expressing emotions, it takes me another minute to deliberate a response. So I settle on a small sweet smile and a wink to let her know everything's okay. Then I turn back to my harness and start to unfasten myself; calling off the next orders as I break free. I can hear the rustling of metal as everyone else messes with theirs too.

"Alright crew. Successful flight everyone, kudos. You know the drill: I'm giving you five minutes to clean up, fuck up, or shut up. Then it's all hands on deck down to the mess hall for Itinerary. Move out!" I order. Feeling kind of proud that Rachel finally got to see me in action running things around here.

"Wow, Rachel must be really eager to get to Itinerary…" Brittany notices as she continues to struggle with her harness, "I don't know why. Itinerary totally sucks—no offense Q."

Confused by the implication, I turn to where the diva should be and only see as wisp of brown hair as she quickly bolts from the cockpit. I might know what this means…I turn to Santana who has also stopped her fidgeting to see what Brittany was talking about. The Latina's worried expression assures me, I definitely know what this means. We both immediately struggle harder and faster to escape our harnesses.

"She's not trying to get to Itinerary Brit. She's making a run for it—she's trying to run!" I scream, tripping over myself as I'm finally freed of my restraint.

I have no time to think twice as I run out of the cockpit after her with Santana, Brittany, and Puck not too far behind. As I get down to the already opened hatch down in cargo bay, panting and out of breath from the chase, she's already too far gone to see. She has victoriously escaped the clutches of her captors. But she also has no idea about the muck that dominates the hell hole she's escaped out into.

"Did you catch her?" Puck asks breathlessly clutching at his knees as the group finally catches up to a stop behind me. I don't answer him. Only stare out among the dingy cityscape that Rachel was last seen running head first into.

"It's okay Q, we'll find her. We get geared up, spread out, and you'll have your little pet back before sun fall," Santana reassures placing a hand to my shoulder. Though her comment comes out mildly sarcastic, I know she's sincere because she'd never go to this length to make me feel better if she didn't truly mean to. If she didn't intend to try...

"God she's so stupid running out there like that! She's gonna go get herself killed! I should let her see for herself. Let her sweat it out and learn what this place is all about just like the rest of us had to," I say through gritted teeth to no one in particular. Biting back tears. Fighting the urge to feel anything other than anger. I can handle anger. It makes me stronger and more alert. I could use it to bring Rachel back to me just as I've used it to keep myself alive all these years.

Just as I think this to myself, another hand rests on my other shoulder. And I look up to see it belongs to no other than Brittany. She says, "If you always do what you have always done, you'll only have what you have now."

I'm not quite sure what that means...I would agree if I understood. I don't really have the time to dissect it now, too blinded by the weighted panic and worry I feel heavy on my mind and thick in my lungs, making even something as simple as breathing difficult to do. But I have hope that someday that meaning will help me through an equally trying situation…and when that day comes I'll probably owe Brittany my life. But until then, I've got an AWOL diva stranded on a blacklisted planet full of the universe's most renowned criminals and thugs…God help me this girl just might be the death of me.

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><p>So that's it for this Chapter. The next chapter definitely moves into a lot more plot, so be ready! Thank you again for your patience, kindness, and attention. Until next time...<p> 


	6. Don't Rain on My Parade, It's Gonna Glow

**Hey, just a quick note: many people wanted to hear a little more of Rachel's side of the story, and I had always strongly considered the possibility. Then, when originally writing this chapter from Quinn's view, I got halfway through and realized it would read better coming from Rachel's instead, so I scrapped the whole thing and started again in Rachel's P.O.V. Then I got about three quarters of the way done with that chapter and realized I was writing a horrible Rachel and scrapped that too. After months of agonizing research and character study, I finally think I've got her just the way I want her. Let me know what you think about Rachel's point of view, I plan on incorporating it a lot more throughout the story and could use some input. Another Note: this will only switch between Quinn and Rachel's POV. Everything else is subject to their viewpoints**

**Story Rating: M because it's awesome**

**Rating: T (for passionate outbursts of emotion, and maybe a little violence)**

**Disclaimer: it's not mine.**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 4: "Don't Rain on My Parade, It's Gonna Glow in the Dark"<strong>

**Rachel's Point-of-View**

Five. A number that has more badgered my thoughts now than ever before. Its significance becoming more and more sullied in the past few hours than the lifetime I've spent giving it any significance at all.

I am a planner. I'm an organizer. I create schedules and deadlines; I keep a cyclical calendar; I store all my important files in an ubiquitous capturing device; I even created a dedicated emergency pack (of which, unfortunately, I did not get to bring along for this adventure); I recycle; I color-code; and I make lists…I make a lot of lists. Great galaxies, they're so wonderful! I used to make a list every morning before school and it was essential that I cross everything off before I left the house—and then after that I had my "Once I've left the house" list. I haven't done that in ages though. I begged to be home schooled because the other kids would give me such a hard time about it.

I remember thinking to myself _what's wrong with these beings? Don't they have any sense of propriety? Sense of maturity? What is it that bothers them so much about success? _I made these points highlights in the holopoint presentation I gave to my fathers the night they pulled me out of public school. I was five.

Earlier that same day, I had made a list of all the steps I needed to take in order to get my fathers to agree to withdraw me from that wretched school. "Make a holopoint presentation" was number two on that list. There's something to be said about the relationship between putting a thought into hard copy and the art of getting it done. It's like a line between two dots where one requires the other in order to get a quotient. Similar to the old-world business view: "if it ain't in writing, then it never happened." Though the grammar is questionable, the idea behind the saying is quite tuneful.

The same idea could easily be applied to goals and tasks as well—"if it ain't in writing, then it _will_ never happen." Either way, the notion stands: it is better to write it down, and bring it to life outside of your thoughts. It creates documentation—for reference, for teaching, for rewriting, or to do with it what we will. It is proof that the thought was there. It's proof that, in the event it did or will happen, it wasn't just a thought; that it became so much more than that and somehow transfigured into a memory. And memories make us all.

That's one of my biggest fears actually. Dear me, I would be so upset if I lost all my memories; if I suddenly couldn't remember every little detail of my life. Why, without memories, we have no foundation for who we are. Nothing with which to build ourselves upon and grow. That's why I keep record of everything in the form of lists. Well...That and they're so darn fun to make!

I've spent twenty-three years doing this same thing: planning and organizing major life events. Where I'll be. What I'll do. Who I'll meet along the way. There isn't a major life scenario I haven't mapped out ahead of time. It makes me feel prepared. I don't like doing things without having a clear idea of what to expect. I need to know the outcome even before I perform the task. That was the last slide in my holopoint presentation and, still to this day, I'm convinced it's the line that finally got my dads to homeschool me. And to think, I started changing the course of my life at the ripe age of five. Age is not the only significance of the number five though. There's only one other time this number has held as much significance in my life.

Most people assume it has to do with time signatures and the Quintuple meter, because of my affinity for music. And the majority of my self-composed musical pieces tend to be in 5/4 or 5/8 or have some Quintuple form within it somewhere—it's my own little time signature, signature to everything I write. I even made a list of the most renowned Broadway hits written in this meter to reference in the throes of writer's block:

"Thank Goodness" from _Wicked_

"Couldn't be Happier" from _Wicked_

"Candide" from _Candide_

"Love to Me" from _Piazza_

"I'd Be Surprisingly Good for You" from _Evita_

"Eva Beware of the City" from _Evita_

"Daddy's Girl" from _Grey Gardens_.

They all have two things in common 1) Quintuple meter and 2) notoriety as songs from some of the best musicals on Broadway. In that regard, I'm sure the number five has displayed its significance in and of itself.

While the quintuple meter is very special to me, it is not what I'm talking about when I reference this mysterious significance of the number five. This particular reference has to do with lists. More specifically, it has to do with the amount of items accumulated to my lists. Typically, I like to make my lists as long as I can, so I know I've exercised every possible scenario or idea that might play out, and for the most part, my lists turn out lengthy and chock full of rich concepts. I'm very dedicated to working through as many different options as possible so that I don't limit myself in any way. Anyone who's anyone should try it!

But one day, when concocting a few new lists of goals, an anomaly happened. For the first time in my life, I created a list of five; and it was—and still is—the shortest list I had ever made.

It baffled and upset me. I mean, almost to the point of despair. For weeks I sat there and played scenario after scenario through my head that I even hand-wrote on paper, but still, it turns out there are only five logical scenarios in which I might potentially die. I could only come up with five! Now, I understand it's a given that all living things must eventually die. No race has successfully found an adequate cure for death; it's most certain for each and every one of us. I'd never deny that fact. But I would plan and organize my own to be as prepared as possible—as I like to be for all major life events. It's just shocking that this list only accumulated up to five suitable options, but based on my environment and lifestyle choices—which happens to be very small and lacking, respectively—there were very few catastrophes likely enough to even take me.

For one, it's possible I might one evening fall asleep in a bathtub full of water and drown. I _do_ have a tendency to submerse myself in relaxation at the end of every day and sometimes lose track of my surroundings. One of the greatest feelings in the world is lowering into a nice warm bubble bath after a hard day. The much needed heat of the bath water temporarily relieving that agonizing ache in your bones. It's one of those things in life that can immediately lull me into a lucid sleep. So far, my head has only ever taken one good dip into the water before I immediately jolt awake in surprise. That's not to say I'll be as fortunate every time I accidentally drift off in the tub. It's a sad and unmindful way to go, but…the thought of dying in bubbles makes me feel better about it. I have this fantasy that, should this be the way I go, I'll be carried on in a single bubble that escapes through the open window. I would float up high towards the sun and it would pop only once it got far enough out that the heaviness of the atmosphere forced its weight; freeing my soul into the sunsets of the Lima skyline.

I felt the second would be dying in my sleep because, let's face it, that particular scenario tops everyone's list of ways to go. My reason behind wanting to go this way is no different than any other being's. Death is a frightening experience for anyone to have to come to terms with. It is something that is mysterious and unknown. We'd all like to die without having any recognition that it's happening. And, given any say in the matter, dying in your sleep seems like the quickest and least painful way to fade away. After going over my final three options, one can only hope to die in a peaceful sleep. In many ways we're all united by the hopefulness that comes with dying in this manner; by sharing the desire to go this way.

Similarly, we are all united by my next cause of death as well. Starvation. But not because we all wish it to happen. But because it is a likely cause of death for any living being at any given time. We all need food to live, and the shortage or lack thereof brings out the true fragility of all carbon-based life. Starvation has been the number one killer of colonies across the universe since the beginning of creatural record. Being that my homeland bears the majority of poor merchant class citizens, we might hold this current universal record. What with the multiple food shortage scares throughout the solar years and all the lives in high threat of famine each and every solar day. It's not my most preferred way to go, but if I wanted to truly be prepared for the end of my life, I needed to think realistically and accept the fact that it was, at the very least, a possibility.

The fourth possibility is death by carbon monoxide poisoning. Which sounds odd, I know. But as it continues to hold the record as the universe's most silent killer, I didn't think it wise to overlook such a title. Just think, here is this gas filling atmospheres for millenniums as a result of the machinery and technologies we as living organisms have grown to rely upon. And yet, we continue to do nothing about it. Letting it fill our homes and factories until it silently kills off every last form of life that served to create it in the first place. It's like Mother Nature's little reminder that we will always continue to be the biggest threat to our own lives; the silliest flaw in our vain character. We think we're better than everything else just because we have advanced cognitive skills; but we aren't. An idea we will forever be quick to turn the blindest eye to. A reason I create lists to prevent from happening the most. If I have to die, I want to do so virtuously. Growing is the greatest of all accomplishments and I would want to die knowing I did so.

Then, as I pondered deeper about the creations of Mother Nature, I thought about my grandparents. I was eight and they were supposed to be visiting Lima for the holidays. But word got out that over half the population of their home planet was infected with an epidemic and they never did make it. While it was technically the Coalition that caused their untimely death when they destroyed the entire planet in a massive explosion, the epidemic that plagued the world proved to be a far worse fate.

Mother Nature created a disease so disastrous, that even our government fears the most spur-of-the-moment outbreak. And the only way they know to stop the spread is the mass elimination of the infected. So it's not too far off the mark to believe that someday I might also die by the same disease. It is called Mephistophelia or "Que Sera Sera." It's similar to the Black Plague from ancient times—only it didn't come from fleas or rats and has killed the population of entire planets in a matter of hours. Though it does kill a being much the same way the Plague did—in boils and blood and fever. And very much _unlike_ the Black Death, this sickness remains the only bacteria in universal history that doesn't have a known cure. It evolved past every biotic agent anyone could throw at it; growing more and more immune the more anybody tried. And in this day and age, as advanced as we've become in medicine and the sciences, we don't even hope to ever find a cure. Even mention the words Que Sera Sera or Mephistophelia and the Coalition will have your planet demolished before you even know you're about to be obliterated. That is the only cure for the awful disease that leaves no more than a rotten corpse in its wake. I perish the thought.

Though, the most ironic thing about disease is that it's not the way in which it takes people's lives, or even its total death count that determines whether or not it may be deadly enough for concern. It's that beings only ever care whether or not there's a cure. The lesser chance a disease might be cured, the more emphasis is placed on how deadly it is and so the more feared it becomes. So, in an odd sense, species across the galaxy have dedicated their lives to curing away their worst fears. To give credit where credit's due, they have been quite successful of this venture in the long run—considering there is only one sickness that still remains cureless. It goes to show, our vanity isn't the only threat to life. It goes to show, I was born into an era of control. This is where I learned the compulsive need to dictate every little aspect of my life just as my ancestors and their ancestors before them. It's why I feel the need to make lists like: "ways I can expect to die." I understand this about myself. I accept that this is an inherited feature passed down through generations before me. And I respect the amount of growth that has come with this trait as well as the consequences. After all, I'm a big fan of any flaw that is for the betterment of society. I'm just disappointed that, in this natural need for control, I've managed to ruin everything.

Notice, if you will, that nowhere in my planning did I list "getting raped and stabbed to death on a blacklisted planet light-years away from home after having been savagely kidnapped by bloodthirsty pirates." And so in a plight to hitch my wagon to the stars, I now find myself traveling through a city so indescribably vile that not even a wisp of wind dares pass through its mangled and decrepit streets; leaving me with nothing more than breathlessness in its absence.

I may have made a tiny mistake. I'll willingly admit that. I was enticed irresistibly by the freedom of an open horizon with very little time to plan the consequences of my choices. Running away from Captain Fabray and her merry band of marauders isn't exactly the most tactful decision I've ever made. I realize this now as I traipse through the alien paths and irrelevant junketings of this wholly unknown world; wild as primeval chaos. My heart flutters with a vague terror in the see-saw of whatever wavering courage willed me into the dark depths of this criminal society. And yet a strange flow of excitement, which I can only attribute to heightened adrenaline, forces me to carry on with my head held as high as possible. Even if that means I have to look at the less than flattering scenery.

I thread labyrinths of obscure streets. Men and creatures alike eye me hungrily as I pass by what appears to be the intricate wheels of skeevy trade grinding on like a mill. And I, undoubtedly, looking as lost as I feel. I once considered asking directions but quickly thought better of it among the crooked, toothless smiles that unveil the devious thoughts formulating behind everyone's dark unapproachable eyes. Although, it would be dim of me to suggest all of these beings are sketchy. Some want nothing to do with me; like veiled ghosts hurrying past as though driven to their land of shadows by shuddering fear, possibly even sharing the same shortcomings I do now. Others are less obvious and appear more peaked by business deals being laid out before them. Still, I feel the over-bearing notice taken of me as I walk by looking far, far from home.

I am far, far from home. Very far, far away indeed. This is the farthest I've ever been from my little home in the city of Stóra Epli, Lima. That city is all I have known for the past couple decades. Well, in the physical sense at least. I've read many microbooks on well-known cities across the universe: from the ice capped mountains of Borg Engla, Arago to the industrious man-made spaceport that is Svartur Tualias, Balih. I've even read about blacklisted planets and their savage environments like Anodyne X. But nothing compares to the real thing. The actuality sinks in; I am very much no longer in Kansas anymore. Only, that's a dreadful comparison because this world is nothing like Dorothy's adventures in Oz. There's no color anywhere—and oh, what I'd give to have the lollipop guild right now. My stars! I suppose Dante's nine circles of Hell seem more appealing than this less-than image of a shanty town.

The pulsing _chop, chop, chop_ of a butcher's blade slices through the inanimate flesh of some poor, defenseless creature in some dark corner of a passing alley. A clang, akin to the sound of chains dragging across concrete, follows me deeper into the heart of the city. The walls of every building are so black with the decay of neglect, you could hardly tell if anyone even occupied them at all. The air so grim and thick in my mouth, it's as if I can taste the grey emissions coming from the great masses. With my heart in my boots, I travel alley to alley in search of true hope. In search of anything really.

The farther I venture through these looming and repressive alleyways, the more I see any hope of survival fade away out of existence. It overtakes me like a spell of tunnel vision; no matter how hard you keep an eye focused on the sight ahead, it still seems so far away. And the ring of focus placed around that desired goal slowly closes in on the object of your desires deceiving you to believe that if only you'd push a little harder you can make it. Oh, how one hopes against hopes to make it. But you won't make it there. The ring of focus tunnels in more and more until it collapses on itself and turns the world to black.

This doesn't happen to me much. And when it does, it deeply worries me. Again, I come from a place that has yet to objectify me so much that it comes to this; to the point where I break emotionally. It happened once a few weeks ago when Quinn suggested everything I know and love might've been violently destroyed by Demagogues. But I really shouldn't talk about that right now. The thought of never seeing my fathers again sends me to a place darker than these streets could ever dream to be.

Then it happened once a few years ago too. When my dreams of becoming an intergalactic songstress were crushed by Kip Freeman of Freeman CommWide Records the minute he told me he'd assure I wouldn't get signed by any of the top names in Intergalactic recording if I didn't sleep with him first. But I realize now how silly it was to get so frazzled out of place about it. There are so many other companies that would be willing to sign someone of my extraordinary talent. I didn't need him. Even if it still bugs me a little that he had the decency to propose such a thing and deny my dreams after I wouldn't indulge his scandalous ways. In his defense, my response may have been slightly inappropriate. The minute he told me I would never be signed I slapped him across the face. Before he could even fully propose sex, I kicked him between his legs….hard, and I told him to never darken my door again. While I don't believe it is my right to physically harm others, nor do I believe it helped my chances of achieving my dreams any more than sleeping my way to the top would, I must say...it felt damned good. When it comes down to that nonsense, I wouldn't so much as hesitate to make the same choice again every time. Someday they'll clamor for my drama! Someday...

Still though, that's about as bad as I get. I'm not like Quinn—bold and well-versed in the ways of the criminal mind. She's Jude and I'm Lucy. She's Sparrow and I'm Swann. She's Mr. Butler and I'm Ms. O'Hara. She's Peter and I am Wendy.

She has seen things—done things and been places outside the barricades of her home world. Impermissible things in the eye of the law. I have not. I've barely seen anything past the gates of my own city. I'm not the kind of girl that likes to constantly live under a cloud like that. Just the thought of being under the suspicion of my government all the time makes me want to cry. Why, the most criminal thing I've ever done is read microbooks (of whose content is written by people like Quinn). And microbooks aren't even really all that criminal in the sense of being illegal as much as they are mostly frowned upon. Daddy didn't want me to go even _that_ far. At the same time, I didn't exactly grow up in the strictest of households. On the contrary actually. Both my fathers were quite adamant about providing a home that never made me feel restricted or confined.

Once, back when I was still in playschool, I became avidly interested in astronomy. I got into it back when my papa would read me a bevy of books on the subject before he'd put me to bed and call me his little star. Oh, but I always listened intently, as if they were the greatest fairytales I would ever get the pleasure to hear. And so, I became as educated about these things as a four-year-old could be. Then, one morning at school, I got into a heated argument with some kids on the subject. I kept telling them the moon was like a small planet, that I'd eat my hat on it, but they simply refused to agree. Finally, after minutes of bickering I called a teacher over to mediate the situation and prove once and for all I was right. I just _knew_ I was right! And I couldn't wait for her to verify my story and declare them wrong.

So, we asked her if the moon was a planet. She told us, "no, the moon is a star." I was stunned stock still by her response. I couldn't believe I had lost the argument. It was something so impiously far-fetched, that even to this day, when I think about it I get so mad I could scream. I still knew I was right—which meant the teacher was wrong. And not only was she wrong, she was ill-informed about something I assumed was common knowledge.

I ran home to my daddies that night and cried for hours into my pillow. It wasn't fair. I was right, and she made me look like a fool in front of everyone the moment I least deserved to. She embarrassed me in front of my peers. And above all, I was still right! How could someone so dedicated to educating little ones be so ignorant and out to ruin my life?!

That night, Papa brought me a glass of milk, rubbed my back, and let me cry it out. It didn't do much for the crying at first, but then he gave me a little dose of wisdom I wouldn't too soon forget. He said, "Little Star, _you_ are the child and _she_ is the teacher. It doesn't matter whether you were right or wrong, she is the authority that enforces the rules and you are expected to follow them. There are reasons why they're there in the first place, and sometimes they aren't very fair. But most importantly, it's these types of situations that teach us to become outstanding citizens. So that one day, when you're a big star, your success will help contribute to the greater good of society." And if anything I will carry that with me forever.

That lesson taught me to always be strong-willed and independent but within the compulsory confines of morality and mindfulness. Strength is okay, but laws are enforced to ensure one's strength does not overpower the individuality of another's. It isn't very nice to take away someone else's beliefs and morals just because you have your own. It's a big part of who I am today. I believe it is only okay to defend yourself if and when someone attacks you. I value morals. I value other people's morals because of it. Unlike Quinn and her merry mob of bandits who are destined to forever remain stigmatized as the moral cowards they are.

And while I can claim that my fathers have taught me much about my role as a participative member of galactic society, I am afraid I don't wear the white flower of a blameless life like everyone seems to think. The very fact that the majority of my studies on the subject come from microbooks is a prime example of my raffish tendencies for waywardness. Their legality is harshly debated among most. If the coalition ever caught wind of my reading them, I would go to trial without so much as a by-your-leave, and not many beings are as quick to defend such a thing. But microbooks are my only access to the outer regions of the world…of the galaxy even. There has always been a part of me that has wanted this—deep beneath the rule-following and social obligation. For whatever reason, I'm an easy prey to the powers of folly.

I suppose Quinn and I have something in common after all then. A composed desire for something greater than ourselves and the stubborn determination in the drive to get it.

Reflections such as these cast a shadow upon my soul. My emotions run dark like the alleyways I now fumble through. I'd never thought of myself as contemptuously before, so quick to compare myself to a straight up brute. It says nothing for my future and yet, so much about my present situation. It's why I jumped ship. Why I'm now being stalked by murderers and thieves on a remote blacklisted planet. Oh, the sinister influence of unprincipled men. The thought alone makes me feel like an unrepentant criminal.

Learning all the things about yourself that had previously gone unnoted can put quite the damper on a heart. I was once a little girl tempered by the emotional warmth of high moral ideals. Now I'm what? A criminal walking towards her death? Calloused by the thicket of selfish and erratic thinking? That mixed with the realization that this unrealized characteristic is the reason why you're cold, hungry, and tired; wandering through the unknown alone both physically and metaphorically speaking. If ifs and buts were candy and nuts I suppose.

I skulk in the here and now. Arms wrapped about my body as if there were any comfort left in the embrace. My head hangs heavy with the weight of disappointment so that I haven't the will to hold it up high anymore. I accept this as an offering of fate in response to my actions up to this point. I am going to die out here. And I don't mean metaphorically or in a joking sense of the word. I mean I will very literally die out here today in a manner I'd never thought to put on my prearranged lists. And what's sadder than that, is knowing I will do so without much of a fight. That _I _alone am the only cause of my death. I'm the only one responsible for creating this fate just like Mother Nature dictates with carbon monoxide poisoning and disease. Now is the time to face the consequence of that fate. Everything I have worked to preserve about myself will mean nothing anymore because I have become my worst fear. I have failed myself. A trail of tears drip down my cheeks. I shut my eyes in expectance of their fall.

There's an eeriness in the air as if the leaves were syllabifying my name in cautious whispers. One shadow in particular has been following me mercilessly since the very start of this journey and I feel it looming closer and closer. I can pick out this mysterious follower among the other crooks and ferreters in the unique feel of its overhang. It's almost familiar to me in a warped sense of long-lost—well, I suppose the right word would be…intimacy? No matter the meaning, this recognition is brief to the overwhelming sense of fear and resignation thereof taking over my thoughts and what little stretch of alleyway I have left. And even if I can sense it's every move, I have nowhere else to go and so meet a dead-end in the form of a steel wall. The fear of death is simply devastating. I don't know why anyone would ever seek experiences to constantly relive it, and I'm not entirely sure why I thought I could tough it out in the first place. Maybe I'm not as strong as my fathers raised me to be. Maybe by dying now, I've failed them too.

As the presence grows closer, I spend time remembering home. The way the two suns would set simultaneously to create the most gorgeous haze of red and purple dusk across the tiny working town. The smell of daddy's cheap cologne and papa's treasured cigar and whiskey tainted breath as they'd cuddle me up tight in their arms and sing songs of love and admiration until I'd inadvertently drift to sleep. The tail end of that memory makes my heart clench tight in my chest until tears formulate once again.

Then, before I can say Jack Robinson, something snatches me up from the darkness of another nearby alley. Strong arms pull me from behind and I squeak in surprise of the force jolting through my tired body. An unusually small hand clasps across my mouth in a firmness that doesn't seem to match the strength of the other arm holding tight about my waist. I'm strangely subservient as we both remain stock still in the predatory darkness.

"Shhhh…don't move," a feminine voice whispers at the shell of my ear. An involuntary shiver blows through me at the intrusion, and I balk at the betrayal of my body's fleshly desires. I shouldn't like that as much as I do.

Even more repulsive than that, is the odd sense of security that washes over me as she holds me firm in her embrace. This woman hugs me from behind in a steel determinacy like the very steel barrier that, only seconds ago, symbolized an end to my journey. She is keeping me from something. Something dangerous lurking around the corner from where we stand. But that's nearly an act of protection—for the love of Streisand no! Surely I'm not diluted enough to believe that anyone on this wretched planet would honestly want to protect me. This has to be an act of selfishness. A way to keep me from others so that she—this female degenerate holding me in her arms—might have me to herself. Forget the security. My body isn't used to the conditions of flight or prolonged space travel anyways. Its instincts are merely muddled by the unfamiliar stray from my normal routine.

Gee manetti! It feels like I have no control of the way I'm feeling. Which is weird for me because I'm always in control of what I'm feeling. Well, I take that back, it's not so much that I'm always in control; it's more like I'm always able to easily recognize each feeling as it comes and goes. I have many emotions. Sometimes all at one time. And it's important I am aware of these things so I constantly give off the image that I'm in control of them. Whether I'm actually in control of them or not is beside the point.

The ambiguous mesh of both anxiousness and relief pull and tug me in many different directions. Then, in the mix of that, I'm also confused. Because how is it possible for me to feel so safe and relaxed when I'm still in just as much danger now as I was a few seconds ago cornered in the alley. I need to remember this is _not_ technically rescue—not yet, at least. Now is certainly not the time to get comfortable no matter what my body feels.

The warm figure from behind pulls me even closer—close enough to feel a rapid heartbeat against my own—as the gang of criminals finally give up the search to find me. The sounds of snarling curses followed by the stench of body odor and stale alcohol soon dissipates into the ever-present, dismal quiet of the city.

This silence reminds me of just how quiet a criminal town can be—which now seems quite odd considering the boisterous sounds coming from the hoard of men that had been after me only seconds ago. Although, all the microbooks I've read on the subject of hunting have pointed out that eerie quiet only ever means the hunter is closing in on its prey. Me being the prey in this scenario. I don't like this feeling. There's only one other situation in which I find my feelings so heavily clouded, and I should be truly cursed if the source of that feeling were with me now.

"How many times will I have to save you before you finally let me take you out?" The woman holding me says in an all too familiar cocky tone. A helpless anger simmers inside me. Great Patti LuPone! The universe must be out to get me!

I try to hold it together, or at least appear as if I'm trying to hold it together in the presence of Quinn Fabray.

"I'd rather you leave me to die than even think of ever going on a date with you captain Fabray."

"Well, that's sweet and all princess, but I'm afraid you've misunderstood...a date isn't exactly what I meant when I said I wanna 'take you out,'" she responds; dimly implying some sort of jest.

When I feel it's safe, I make a show of jerking away from her.

"Well in that case, you're more than welcome to try," I reply disdainfully, dragging behind her—though not too slow because we _are_ still traveling through the same dangerous streets.

She's not my ideal knight in shining armor, and I'm not even entirely sure I'm any safer with her than I was on my own. But she did happen to save me. Which might count for something seeing as she doesn't seem much like the rescuing type. Then again, that calls to question why she even took me away from my home in the first place. She'd probably call it rescuing….I'm still not as convinced.

I mean goodness alive! She scared the living daylights out of me! And I'm angry that she let me believe it was someone else the whole time, yet I'm relieved that it turned out to be a familiar face. Better the devil you know and all. But still, she should at the very least apologize for her insolence. There's no need to be rude. I hope she feels that to the extent I do. If she doesn't, well then I'll just have to make her.

"Where are we going?" I ask after the momentary lag in our previous conversation. I needed a moment to collect myself after such a crazy ride of emotion. I'm still trying to regain some of my more positive attitude after the great self-discovering lapse from myself.

"It's a tavern, princess," she says, stopping abruptly in front of me.

I dislike when she calls me that.

I almost crash into her as she stops until she turns around to finally meet my gaze. Her eyes immediately stop me; catching my full attention. It's funny how up until now, I never really noticed her eyes. They're actually sort of…pretty—I mean, underneath the obvious film of smug respectability and self-content. And then even further than that, beneath her need to feel distinguished by hereditary rank or social position. It's almost as if you could see occasional flashes of tenderness and love—that thrives on insecurity most times, no doubt! But a form of tenderness and love all the same. There's something indescribably…reckless and desperate in such a picture. It is quite captivating.

She leans pertly against the rustic looking wooden doors. Her Cheshire cat grin gleams self-satisfactorily against the dim light from the overhead street lamps pulling ruggedly at the supple lines arbitrarily strewn about her face. Suddenly her eyes aren't as captivating anymore.

"I can see that, Quinn."

I blush at the way her first name sounds as it leaves my lips; low and electric, sending light jolts of residual charge all throughout the inner confines of my skin. It's not how I had intended it to sound at all. To say I'm shocked would be an understatement because very literally, I feel as if I'd been shocked. I shake it off to pull myself back together. Or maybe that was more a shiver at the fresh memory of electricity resounding throughout my cavities.

"Might I ask _why _we are at a tavern?" I question more assertively. To show her I will _not_ be as submissive as she'd like me to be.

Judging by the way she's looking at me, she noticed too. She shifts so that her back is slouched up against the door and crosses her arms across her chest, eyeing me down carefully before answering. It doesn't take me long to realize how easily I just recited from Quinn Fabray's script. As if it was carved into the dark wooden panel of the door behind her ready and waiting to be spoken aloud. I stare past her ashamed I bought into her little game.

"Well…I guess to _do_ whatever it is folks typically do in a tavern, princess."

I don't miss the certain innuendo in her reply. She pushes herself against the door and opens it to the view of drunken thieves and rowdy bar patrons communing loudly in the background. It reminds me of how much her smugness irks me. Well I never! Who does she think she is giving me the short shrift? A quiver of resistance runs through me. I'm fed up to the back teeth!

I've met thousands of Quinn Fabrays in my time. Always so confident. Always so sure. Thinking she's got little me all figured out. A master of the female introspective. Ever persistent in the chase; unwilling to go down so easily by the rejection laced in each verbal blow. It's all been done to death and I've had it! Rachel Barbra Berry is better than that, and it's high time I show her I can play the game just as well as she can. The Quinn Fabrays of the world don't respond to physical assaults or mere verbal warnings. No amount of hitting or kicking or screaming will fight off their stubborn advances.

The only way to a Quinn's defeat is straight through her ego. And what better way to do so than by using her own weapon as the stake. If she wants to play that way then fine! It's been said before and it shall be said again, I'm through playing by the rules of someone else's game. I can play that way too!

"Considering your love of the infinitive then Captain," I say softly in a practiced hum that has brought even the strongest man to his knees, "I suppose a tavern would be the ideal establishment in which to 'take me out'."

Each word is released in small puffs of air against the grin that progressively falls alongside the high rise of her cheeks. Her body stiffens at the approaching proximity of mine. And while this most likely excites her, it is not the purpose of our closeness. It's not the reason she stands stock-still before me now suddenly devoid of all playful banter. I may not be many things but I am still a lady, and I expect to be treated as such—even from a rotten apple like Quinn Fabray!

"Maybe for once in your life you might indulge a hint of gallantry when a lady asks you to finish her off. You of all people should know a man's only as good as his word and what, my darling, is the point of implying something if you aren't even going…to follow…through?" I make sure to annunciate each syllable of the last four words. I want them to hold more than what they mean hoping she can read through the obvious display of hurt.

My stars, how the tables have turned. She writhes in the grip of a subtle but definite apprehension. This is the part of the script I've written. An improvised jut of my chin; lips primed just above that in demand of her much needed silence. This is how Rachel Barbra Berry gets the message across. She looks into my eyes because she knows she has to. And I pull her past the surface of that stare because I want her to _feel_ the hurt in every word I say. She needs to feel _my_ pain for a little while. Because that's what this is really about. I want her to feel the weight of insecurity; to rip away from her the one thing she's sure of so that she knows what it's like to lose control. If I can't have any, then why should she? So she can use that against me? I want her to stop this fowl charade. I'm doing it so she knows there's nothing left to take from me. Her smug and arrogant attitude is wasted on air and her own presence. This is what she needs to understand. If you can't make them hear it in your words, make them feel it in your statement.

My lips brush the shell of her ear, "Perhaps I should seek the company of another criminal. One who's brave enough to just kill me? I'm sure this _tavern_ is bound to house at least one."

A sense of well over-due satisfaction blows through me. I guess it's not every wind that can blow you from your anchorage after all.

I make sure to brush my body purposely against hers as I walk by, flashing the brightest smile. I only look back once. And though her eyes are glazed with disinterest and her nostrils flare wildly above the grim line of her lips, I can tell I've gotten to Quinn Fabray. I have successfully cracked a chisel into that hard case exterior. Pride works busily to repair itself within her. With a job well done, I hug the thought of my own unknown and unapplauded integrity. And with a practiced sensual stroll, I sally forth towards the bar to reward myself with a much needed drink. Goodness knows that after a day like today I could use numerous. I feel her following close behind though she makes an extra effort to go unnoticed.

A sudden regret washes over me; throwing a cold bucket of water on the warmth that came with self-satisfaction. What am I doing? This isn't me. Just as much as being a criminal isn't me. I can't help but feel bad about what I said to her. It was kind of harsh—especially after she'd gone out of her way to save me.

Only when the boisterous balance of the bar quiets to nothing, I stop long enough to recognize my surroundings; chilled by the intercepted glances of wondering eyes fawning like dumb neglected lap-dogs. The very silence of the place appears a source of peril. My, what have I walked into?

We finally make our way to the bar before everything goes back to normal once more. The uproar and contention of it all pierces me like arrows. I flinch desperately trying to hide it; unsure of how exactly something like that might make me appear to the hundred sets of eyes stalking me from every angle. Then there's the part of me that doesn't care how it looks. It's the same part that just wants to curl up into a little ball in the corner and cry like I did when I was a little girl until all the bad stuff goes away. Only, instead of papa with a glass of milk to comfort me, I have Quinn. She pulls up a seat next to me and orders herself a stiff drink. I don't need to see her to know she's there. It's like I have a sixth sense when it comes to the wayward blond.

The sound of a throat clearing grabs my attention. I raise my head to find no other than her usual self-satisfied glare watching my show of trepidation. Just as I've developed a sixth sense to Quinn Fabray, Quinn Fabray has equally developed the same sixth sense for me. She sees my anxiety among the hungry stares. I could try with all my might to hide it and it wouldn't go unnoticed by the knowing eyes of the devious captain.

She's just so confusing, paroxysmal, and irritating beyond all comprehension—all of which would have been fine, if she also wasn't so darn attractive. She's an antagonist worth her steel. A prevalent characteristic of her nature.

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't voice all the things I know she must be thinking right now out loud. She just slides the drink she purchased in front of me and orders another. She's gloating. A way to say I told you so without having to really say anything at all. I pushed her and she's pushing back. It serves as a reminder that I'm in her world now, and my rules aren't as effective in a society that thrives on breaking them. But this time, I've resolved to sit by quietly and ignore it. I've spoken my peace. She knows where I stand. Anything further than that would be a waste of breath.

And if I have to waste anymore breath on Quinn Fabray, then so help me—

"Hey sweet-cheeks, lemme buy you another drink," what looks to be a giant Psuedokin says as he takes the free seat on the other side of me.

"No thank you. I'm still working on this one," I reply in as neutral a tone as possible. I don't want any trouble.

I've never actually met a Psuedokin in person, but I've read many microbooks about them and their culture. They aren't typically known for their kindness or for being well-tempered. They're a giant reptilian race almost completely banished to the blacklisted planets for their rather unruly behavior patterns. Judging from what I've read, there's nothing worse than a ticked off Psuedokin. And being as fragile as I undoubtedly appear sitting next to this one, I'm not looking to find out what that looks like anytime soon. I pretend to be entranced by my drink, hoping he gently takes the hint. I'm thrilled to bits by the sound of Quinn shifting beside me. When I lift my head to look, thankful for the much needed distraction, she is standing to greet a new darker-skinned patron who has entered the bar.

The newcomer is stocky yet strong and obviously carries herself with the diffused air of someone who knows what they're doing. Quinn lets out a laugh as if she's known this woman all her life, slapping a firm palm-to-palm handshake to the stranger's hand and inviting her to an open seat with a lackluster smile. I wasn't aware that Quinn was capable of obtaining friends—what with her calloused temperament and unpredictable mood swings. The unfamiliarity of it all has me deeply engrossed in the interchange between the two. I feel like an explorer observing the beast in its natural habitat.

"Mercedes Jones! Didn't think I'd ever see you again after what happened back on Nahm."

"Quinn Fabray. Didn't think you'd have the balls to ever talk to me again after you left me stranded by myself back on Nahm," the stranger named Mercedes responds unemotionally as she orders a drink from the barkeep.

I struggle to hear over the loud ramblings of the other patrons around us. It really is inconvenient for everyone else to be talking so loudly when I'm obviously interested in what these two have to say. Goodness, why do criminals have to be so rude!?

Apparently, Quinn's presence isn't as well received by the person she seemed to act so friendly with only moments ago. This seems more familiar—like the crude captain we've all come to love and know. I'm suddenly less engrossed in the conversation. Knowing what I know of Quinn and our location, she's probably engaging in the illegal bits and bobs of business. I do, however, hear most of Mercedes' side of the conversation because of the booming volume of her deeper voice. A voice that commands respect. A voice that makes me feel somewhat sorry for Quinn for not having the capability to give.

"What's with little Miss Universe pageant over there?" Mercedes questions, nodding in my direction; obviously unsure of what a girl like me would be doing in a place like this. I can't argue with her though. I'm equally disturbed by this same circumstance.

Quinn mumbles out some incoherent response that I'm glad I can't hear because it would most likely offend me given her track record. I take another nip of my drink, slowly enjoying the feel of it as it settles in my belly—drowning out the butterflies that have taken up nest there—and wait to hear more.

Instead I hear the overpowering voice of the same Psuedokin from before trying to gain my attention.

"Hey sweetheart?"

I look towards Quinn and her guest, pretending as if I didn't hear him and hoping against hope this method works. I'm not prepared to talk to a being like him. I wouldn't know what to do—what to say. And from the looks of him, he's big enough to swallow me in one bite if he wanted to. I surely don't want to give him any reason to try.

"Look Q, I already told you. Business is tight and I don't got nothin for you right now. You should drop by Kurt's. I hear he ain't in with the finks yet. Maybe he's got something for you," Mercedes answers, taking a long swill from her mug. As she's wiping the remaining drops from her lips, she focuses intently in my direction once more and eyes me suspiciously. Honestly, I'm not sure what scares me more at this moment: the creepy Psuedokin breathing down my neck or the soul-crushing gaze of Mercedes Jones.

She tries to speak quietly, but the power behind her voice prevents all hope of her doing so.

"Q? You positive she's just nobody? 'Cuz I swear I've seen that girl somewhere before."

I chuckle to myself in amusement. I'm sure she's aware of the intensity of her voice. I don't understand why she's even trying to quiet it. She's almost drawing more attention to herself by trying to quiet the sound than if she were to bellow out in her normal raucous manner. By the grace of music, with a voice like hers, I'm sure she must be an excellent singer. It sounds to me like she could hold out one glorious note long enough and loud enough to fill an entire concert hall all by herself. I'd love to maybe one day witness such talent personally. Though, being the type of person she is, I'm sure it might be weird of me to come out and ask if she would. Yeah, I'm sure that'd end real well. I'd definitely have to consider adding a new alternate method of dying to my list after an exchange like that; one that involves stabbing or shooting and more blood than I'm comfortable seeing.

But the temptation to ask is too great. Just as I'm about to give in and blabber my question, I'm interrupted from doing so.

"Hey! I'm talkin to you little girl!"

Suddenly I am swept up into the strong arms of the persistent Psuedokin beside me, who has obviously had enough of my unawareness tactics.

To say I'm shocked and appalled wouldn't even begin to describe the way I'm feeling right now. It gives me a freight like I've never known. And still, despite this most regrettable position, I don't respond the way I would think I would.

I'm being mauled and molested by an oversized crocodile; getting touched in inappropriate places; being told obscene things; even getting licked by his serpent-like tongue from time to time. All this is happening to me and the only thing running through my mind is how badly he smells. For the love of Barbara Streisand this has to be the worst thing I have ever smelled in the entirety of my short life. And I work in bars for a living! I mean, do they not have baths here? Running water and a soap-like substance anywhere!? Forget anything this man has done in regards to his criminal history, a stench this bad has GOT to be illegal somewhere. Even on a planet full of thieves and lawbreakers.

"HEY! LIZARDFACE!" Her voice rings out, full of temper, hard-held. My internal rant is immediately cut short by an enraged Quinn Fabray. I've never heard her sound as angry as she does now. More venom lacing each word than most beings would wish to create in entire paragraphs.

He stiffens at her loud opposition and loosens his tight hold of me though not fully, so that I am still constrained to his arms. My feet, however, manage to drop to the solid hard-wood of the bar floor. I didn't even realize they hadn't been touching until the familiar sting shoots through the bottom of my shoes and into my feet when they hit ground. The bar once again runs silent to take in the scene. The anticipation eats away at my insides, but in a light bulb moment, I don't dare move from my place in his arms. Once again caught in a situation I never saw myself in without any plan…without any goal. He doesn't get the opportunity to even respond before a field knife, half the size of my arm, bites down into the wooden counter right in-between where he sits and I stand at the bar top.

In an unexpected turn, she lowers her tone to an eerie calm, "I believe you've just taken something that belongs to me."

I feel a large gulp where his throat meets at the back of my head. Everyone's eyes watch intently. She sits there steely in her accusation. He still smells awful. If anything, I can't stand the raunchy smell anymore.

"Put her down," she demands in a sing song manner which implies she's playing coy—even though the pistol in her hand gives off a less innocent image.

He roughly releases me and I immediately run to Quinn, who quietly pulls me to the side and shields me with her body. A sure sign of defense. A gesture I find adorable and endearing, yet at the same time irritating and degrading. It takes everything in me not to indulge in an outburst. It doesn't seem like the time or place for such a display of feeling and I'm proud to say, that for once in my life, I've managed to hobble my lip so the situation could just play out. She sits in the seat I once occupied with her gun still drawn to the Psuedokin and finishes off what's left of the drink I left behind.

"Now. Didn't your mother ever teach you it's not nice to take other people's property?" She inquires with a composure I can't believe she's able to pull off in a time like this. If she was mad, you'd never know the difference. I'm having trouble fighting my urges to burst in a swell of emotion at any given moment, and I'm sure it still shows on my face. I can't even imagine how difficult this might be for her. Yet she delivers her lines so gracefully.

The Lizard man must know of her because he cowers before her like a child being punished. She must have some interesting stories if something this contemptible has heard of her and so fears the ground she walks. He doesn't even get a chance to respond before she leaps from her seat and into his face, digging the pistol into the spot between his wide, fearful eyes. Now I feel bad for him for crossing that line with the angry blonde captain.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't kill you here right now!? Huh!?"

A fiery exclamation of wrath and disdain that makes everyone in the tavern shifty with the intensity of the outburst.

"Please, no! I didn't know she was yours! I swear! You know I wouldn't take anything from you captain. Please don't shoot me! I got a wife and kids and a sick mother waitin on me in Kasbah. You wouldn't really wanna hu—"

"SHUT UP!" She commands over his desperate squabbling. Seething with suppressed wrath, she digs the barrel deeper into his scaly skin; and it forges the start of an imprint that becomes visible just past the tip.

She's quickly losing patience and I can't handle any more violence. In an attempt to soothe her, I rest a calming hand to her ribcage beneath the arm she has raised at gunpoint. The bones there feel malnourished and defined as if she hadn't eaten in days, but I pet softly at them nonetheless. I never really expected the gesture to do much of anything. I did it out of reflex; unable to handle another vicious outbreak from either party. But Quinn Fabray never fails to surprise me in these moments I least expect her to.

She visibly sinks into the touch with a deep sigh. And though she still holds her gun to the Psuedokin's head, it seems as if she's no longer as intent to kill. Right now, if he really wants to live like he says he does, his best bet is to just keep quiet long enough for her to fully calm down. I have no doubt she'd pull the trigger. But something oddly peculiar prevents her from doing so.

"Plus, she's such a pretty young thing. You should've been more careful with goods like that sittin around for anybody to see," he says into the silence.

Apparently Psuedokins are as dumb as they are smelly—something that's not as well mentioned in my microbooks on the subject. Something that if I ever survive this mess, I'll be sure to notify the editors about.

Quinn's face visibly tightens into that of pure rage. Her knuckles fade to white in a tightened grip that strains against the handle of her pistol. Everything moves in slow motion. It's as if she's battling internally with whether she should pull the trigger or not.

And _still _the reptile continues, "That is a mighty fine piece of ass you got there Q…Ever thought of selling—"

"That's it! You're dead!" She all but calls out, jumping to reach a better angle.

In the matter of an instant and without any recognition of having done so, I'm the only thing standing between that Psuedokin and his designated bullet. Not one of my better judgment calls, mind you—the beast definitely deserved anything Quinn was about to throw at him. But something inside me just wouldn't allow her to go through with it. I could typecast it to natural altruistic mannerisms. Conversely, I've never seen a dead being up close; much less watch a being get shot to their death. It makes sense why I would feel the need to risk my own life for a scumbag like this when all I've ever known is innocence in comparison.

But I'm fairly certain that is not the reason I am standing here now, staring Quinn in the eye over the barrel of her gun. I watch that eye twitch involuntarily. A definitive side-effect that always comes with the case of sour grapes. I must say, jealousy is a sexy thing on the scary captain. The look of a determined killer, however...is not as pleasing to the eye.

She looks like a snarling beast baulked of its prey; and I just know she's screaming at me to move inside her head. Even though I don't plan on complying so easily with her wishes. But still, her hand holds steady. Her aim is dead set on the guy behind me. That is how I can tell she's a killer. She's done this before. She is, no doubt, a confident markswoman with an expert focus only her victim could break—and that's only if they were to move. Her hand isn't shaking like mine would be if I were in her position. It doesn't even move with the rise and fall of her breathing that is rapidly increasing in frustration.

"Don't—" I can't bring myself to speak the rest. I don't want to even pretend like this is real right now.

The entire bar watches in silence as I slowly lower her pistol with an unsteady hand of my own. I fight the tension of struggling tears which strive for an outlet; worried that this might not be the appropriate time for them to fall as freely.

She does her best to mask her agitation as she still grips tight to the gun but allows me to guide it back to the holster attached to her thigh. I've become incredibly close because of the action. So much so, I can feel her breath on my face. My nerves thrill like throbbing violins. Whether it's from our closeness or the fear evoked by the fact I've just prevented a killer from doing what they enjoy most, I'm not sure. And despite her insatiable appetite for trifles, she doesn't fight me on the decision I've made _for_ her. Nobody will be dying tonight. Not in my presence. Defeated and understanding of this rule, she allows her body to morph back into the notoriously graceful length of limb and fall of shoulders that solely belongs to her. The blemishes of an extraordinary reputation prevalent about her formal posture. No wonder the worst of the worst fear her. She's completely unpredictable—exquisitely chaotic.

In a swift and sudden gesture, she turns back towards Mercedes, "While I'm sorry we couldn't work something out today, thank you for your time and business. We should be going now, but I'll be sure and pay Kurt a quick visit before I leave."

Her mannerisms almost seem robotic and forced as she once again shakes the woman's hand, signifying what is universally known as the close to a business deal. The darker girl shakes the notorious captain's hand and then walks off as if nothing even happened. Like this was something she dealt with every day. I don't know if I'll ever grow used to the strangeness of such things.

Quinn turns, in one possessive motion, and pulls me against her tight enough to feel the stillness of her forced composure. It's surprising how she manages to do so without so much as one glance at the petrified Psuedokin. She stands to leave, donning her jacket and paying the barkeep—making sure to keep me as close to her as possible. Not willing to make the same mistake again by letting me out of her reach. Gestures such as these might make a normal lady swoon. But I know better than to fall for this. The infuriating blond should be in my bad books right now, she just should be! To let myself fall for anything other than that would be emotional suicide.

As she leads me towards the exit, I realize, I might've been the dose of medicine Quinn Fabray needed. Not to sound condescending to my prior realization or anything. It's just—I can't stop thinking about the fact that this is the second time in one day that Quinn has managed to save me. And something about that just doesn't add up at all.

I think I read somewhere about the psychology behind criminal intent and the microbook indicated that a person like Quinn, in a society like hers, would normally be expected to finish off the perpetrator if ever caught in a personal crime. It is the only law in the land of crime; every man for himself, to each their own, and everybody else be damned. They act almost primitive in nature, always needing to prove that they are superior by way of defending what little they "own" to the death—this including the ownership of other beings. In her mind, she should have moved me away and shot the Psuedokin dead. But for some reason, she didn't.

She swallowed her pride and spared his life, over something that would have had him killed otherwise….for what? For me?

I should think not! I mean, her lifestyle doesn't serve as the most reliable source, but it's safe to say the captain of a feared pirate clan wouldn't go through such courtesy for a girl like me. I can't help but wonder: if not for me, what for then?

With thoughts like these running rampant through my head, it's hard to control a lingering tinge of admiration for the girl standing gracefully beside me. This might be the first time I ever saw her as just that…a girl. Not a domineering, repugnant pirate, but a simple girl just like me. She always has been beautiful—make no bones about that. Now, though—now it's curiouser and curiouser.

Nevertheless, I need to remember who it is I speak of here. Admittedly, she's very beautiful. But it's a determinate thing to know, her beauty is like a beast.

It bites.

She stops for a moment, silently evaluating something. Her scarlet lip curls cruelly. Every curve of her feature seems to express a fine arrogant animosity and harsh defiance. She turns back to the bar, leaving me in her wake only to do so. And at first, it appears as if she has left something behind and has gone to retrieve it, but then I see her hand disappear in her jacket. As much as I want to believe Quinn has changed, in this moment, I know I am about to be gravely disappointed. Even though she walks calmly—as composed as she was before—back to where we once sat, I see her slowly drawing her field knife. She's headed right for the Psuedokin, who has moved on from the event and now sits, drink in hand, unaware it may be his last.

Before I can even do anything, she has already reached him. Her knife is drawn, ready to attack.

The sound of the steel blade catching the air cautions me to close my eyes. I squeeze them shut as quickly and as tightly as my body will allow me to. I can't watch her do this. I fought so hard for her not to because I'm not ready to see this kind of thing; I'm not ready to watch someone take another man's life. Yet here we stand. His screams fill the large room so that nothing else can be heard through the deep call of distress—apart from what sounds like the knife sticking into wood. I can't see what is happening, but I can tell it's not good. After only two more slices of her swinging knife, I feel a tug at my arm and open my eyes to see that I am being guided once more to the exit.

I look to her calloused face and see nothing but anger. That look worries me. It looks as if she's done exactly what she expected to do. The sounds of screaming still ring out deafeningly in the air around us, signaling that he is still very much alive. So far. Though, I have very little evidence that he will stay that way for long. I flinch at the crescendo of each new shriek of agony behind me. I don't know what she did, but with the terror of it all…I want to cry for him.

I can't help the single droplet that tracks my face as the door muffles my ears to the cries coming from inside. Quinn pulls me alongside as if nothing even happened, and right now, I'm not sure if I should be following along so easily. I can't understand how everyone on this planet can witness something like that and then pretend like it didn't happen. Then it becomes a little clearer. How many times do things like this typically happen here? I haven't really changed anything! Her heart has already grown icy as a fountain in the fall. She is exactly who she's always been and who she will always continue to be. I'd be better off converting to old Believer morals and finding faith in a higher being that has still yet to prove his existence the three centuries humans have spent believing he's coming back to save them.

I've never felt as let down as I do now as I allow her to pull me along in silence.

We arrive at a run-down jewelry shop a few blocks away from the tavern. I'm not so over the moon at the prospect. I question the integrity of such an establishment, especially considering the environment outside its dingy grey walls. It doesn't seem like the type of business one might go into on a planet inhabited by thieves and crooks. I mean, cripes! How daft would you have to be to own a jewelry store in the middle of criminal island? Even I'm not as naïve to believe that could work. It's most certainly the only jewelry shop I can remember seeing since I've been on this planet, which doesn't do anything to reprieve my fear of being in a store full of valuable steal-worthy items amongst the only people in the universe who won't hesitate to do so; a bout of chills tear up my spine.

Quinn pulls me to the counter and stops, ringing the little bell on the counter before she does. A small distant voice calls "wait a second," and so we do in silence. Again, I study the rigidity of Quinn's face. The creases above her eyes meet sharply with the arc at the bridge of her nose; unwavering on her soft skin.

Her face is animated by noble pride. The way each line looks to be perfectly placed there in the spot between her eyes is analogous to everything else about her. Posture always composed to imply strict mannerisms. Nose held high to assert a sort of arrogance most definitely brought on by the influences of her upbringing. She has an unconquerable fidelity to duty.

I want to ask her why she did what she did. "Why" seeming like the only gateway to understanding Captain Quinn Fabray. Of all the thoughts swirling about my head, "why" seems like one thing I deserve an explanation to the most straight from the lips of the pirate queen herself. But her cold, penetrating gaze assures me I will not receive an answer—or at least not one I'd find acceptable enough. I may be inexperienced in many things about this world and this lifestyle, but I am no stranger to the look tacked across her face now.

A look that says I could ask her "why" a thousand times over and every single response would only ever be "because I had to." She's a slave to duty; just as her society would have her believe. I already know the answer to "why." I know hearing the response will leave me all the more dissatisfied.

I won't get the answer I want—it's pointless even trying. So I ask the only thing left, "What did you do?"

Her head snaps up to look at me, conjuring up scenes of incredible beauty and terror. I'm almost afraid to ask again. But I do. "B-back at the bar—what did you do to that man?"

She only stares at me, quietly contemplating her answer.

"What I had to do."

Of course. The enormity of crime and anomalies of law. I should have known I would get that answer no matter what question I asked. Her intense stare softens and with a vanquished and weary sigh she says, "I didn't kill him."

Somehow, I don't believe her.

"Really, I didn't. I promise," she continues, fidgeting slightly with her hands.

I didn't say that last part out loud, did I? The part about not believing her? No, I don't think I did. It's easy to forget how easily the blond can read me when she looks at me like that; devoid of all austerity. I turn an ignoring eye. One I'm sure she knows having mastered it so well herself.

Without looking at her, I softly ask, "How can I believe you?"

Suddenly, the intense meaning behind this question spins through the air around us and I am more passionate in my interrogation, "How can you even be sure? I heard him back there screaming for every ounce of his life! He sure sounded like he was halfway dead to me, Quinn! So how can you stand there right now and tell me you're a hundred percent positive he's not!?"

"I don't make mistakes, princess!"

"What does that have to do with anything Quinn Fabray!?"

"If I'd wanted him dead, then he would be dead!" She screams back, fluttering with rage and wounded sensibility. I don't push her further after that. The recognition of the statement hits me full on, once again reminding me of who she really is and how resolute she is to stay that way.

Again, her voice softens and her head drops, as if the next part was meant for the floor's ears instead, "And I am telling you now…he's _not_ dead."

Before she can explain any further, a staccato cough interrupts the flow of speech. The presence of another being stands curtly, waiting behind the counter; a dandified, pretty-boy-looking sort of figure.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything. A lover's quarrel perhaps? I have just the thing, you know," the boy says cheerfully. Much too cheerful for someone who lives on a planet such as this.

"We're not—that's not what I'm here for Kurt," Quinn answers immediately. Her cheeks turn a light shade of pink at the implication.

"Well then. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?" The boy-man coos flippantly. He speaks with a uniformity of emphasis that makes his words stand out like the raised type for the blind.

"Mercedes told me you might be able to hook me up with a job. Any chance she's right?"

However, the guy doesn't respond immediately to Quinn's inquiry. He's too busy eyeing me up and down—though not in the sexual way that most presumably implies. He does so, almost with a sense of familiarity, like an old friend lost to the years trying to place the face with a name.

"You know, you look really familiar. Have we met before?" He asks me directly. Eyes squinted furtively, like it would help him recognize me any better.

"No, I don't believe so—"

Quinn interrupts me before I can say any more—I'm guessing it's because of my status as fugitive. Wouldn't want people asking questions after all.

"Look Kurt, I'm kinda buying for time here. Think you could stay focused please?"

His eyes flash with the brilliancy of a well-cut jewel.

"Hm. There's a chance I may have something. Let me run to the back real quick and see if I can't dig it up."

I don't understand why everyone on this planet is acting so strangely towards me. Never in my life have I associated with anyone even remotely connected to these people and yet, here I am being eye-balled by every new stranger I happen to run into. First the large, dark woman at the bar, then a jeweler that glitters like his shop! What's next? A singing banana that holds me hostage until I admit we've met before?

"You are in luck Quinn Fabray, I have one more shipment left that needs to go out!" the jeweler sings gaily, now reentering the room with a small brown package.

"Fan-fucking-tastic, Kurt. Just hand it over along with the coordinates, and we'll be on our way."

Without hesitation he hands Quinn the package. Though a notable look of mild disgust is seen on his face as he does so. As if he's become so lionized by fashionable society that just the mere thought of having to touch the same item as the dreaded Captain Fabray sets him ill at ease. If the blonde notices it as well, she doesn't let it show. She is obviously well-trained in the mannerisms of business and maintains an important air thusly. The gloomy insolence of self-conceit conjured between the two of them makes my stomach flip.

But before the swell of nausea can fully churn within me, the jeweler once again hones in on the sense of familiarity between us.

"Are you sure we haven't met before?" he questions in a soft and truly curious tone.

I'm not sure how I should respond to him. I haven't known him long but in the short amount of time that I have, he has seemed just as arrogant and displeasing as the rest of the criminals I've come to know on this trip. But here, right now, as he stares curiously into my eyes searching for any hint of an answer, there is more sincerity in his gaze than I have seen looking back at me in a while. I nod dumbly. Where my vocabulary is usually vivid and plenty, I struggle to find it now.

"I just get the strangest feeling that I know you," he says in a half-breathless murmur of amazement and incredulity.

In one single motion, Quinn leaps to my side ready to once again whisk me away from unwanted attention; the glaring example of rapacity.

"Yes, well. That's all well and great! Maybe we can all catch up sometime. Have a party with cocktails and conversations of memories past. But as of right now we should be going. Thanks again Kurt!"

She pulls me roughly out of the shop. Kurt is left behind to his musings with no much more than a wave good-bye; a wordless farewell. Her grip tightens on my arm as we continue on our trek through the city. I'm not sure how her possessiveness makes me feel. On one hand, I relax in the safety of the gesture. It makes me feel wanted and cared for all in one raging swirl of emotion. On the other hand, I can't stand the thought of being tossed about. I have too strong a personality to be dominated so easily and that won't change, especially for the likes of Quinn Fabray!

"Will you stop manhandling me!?" I screech, wrenching free of her unyielding grasp, "I'm not really your property, remember?"

"Yes," she laughs away my protestations, "but wouldn't it be great if you were?"

I've had just about enough of cocky, over-confident Quinn. If her goal was to get under my skin, then I'm ashamed to admit that she has finally done so. I've always been made fun of for my displays of irritation. Back home, they are usually referred to as the Rachel Berry Diva storm off. If this were home, I would fight the urge indefinitely to maintain my cool in front of my friends and family. However, this is not home and Quinn is neither friend nor family. So why is it that I still fight to maintain my mood in her presence? Because my daddy used to always tell me after one of my notorious storm-offs, that I am a Berry. I am better than short tempers and childish demonstrations. If I want to be taken seriously, then I need to appropriately project that onto the person who has upset me. Or else I will always continue to make the chiding worse by giving in.

But as I stand here, challenged by the sneering blonde before me, I can't help but follow my natural instinct. I storm off ahead of her; determined to finally get a break from her unrepentant ego. Daddy's words ring like a bell in my ears. And I respond in my mind with the only logical reason for giving in so easily: for her, I will merely parade an exception to prove a rule. Quinn Fabray can't have the best of me! Not today!

"Rachel wait! Please! Wait up! I was only kidding!"

* * *

><p>"I really didn't kill him, you know? I'm sure of it. I promise." She declares in requital for various acts of rudeness; with avidity that bespeaks at once the restlessness and genius of her mind.<p>

We've been walking for a good while now. Having ended up well out of the city's limits to a point where I can see the blonde's little weed-clogged ship, gray as a ghost, not too far off in the distance.

I've heard her statement. Actually, it would be impossible for me not to have heard it, considering the acute note of distress in her voice that is highly uncharacteristic of the great Quinn Fabray. And though I'd very much like to mock her in spite of her normally haughty ego, I can't quite bring myself to do so. But at the same time, I don't encourage the conversation her statement will bring. I'm still trying to move past the bar incident and don't really wish to bring up the event any more than we already have. I'm still too sensitive about it. And we've managed to spend almost an hour and a half together without killing each other. Despite how it may seem, I don't really want to meddle with that.

So, I attempt to change the topic. "Where are we going?"

And with a dejected sigh, Quinn answers, "Back to the ship. We sort of got a deadline on this package delivery."

I'm glad she doesn't push me on the subject. She has always been very good at that. It's an almost charming trait of the wayward captain. She's always been eerily good at reading me, and knowing precisely which button to push in accordance with my most current mood. It's aggravating to no end. Then again, I've never been really good at hiding my feelings. I was raised not to keep things bottled up inside. Papa used to always tell me that if I did, I would one day explode into a million pieces and that the end result would be so cataclysmic no one would ever be able to but me back together again. Daddy was always more sensible and would assure me that was a lie; that people don't just blow up from emotions. They were both always good at helping me understand emotions as a good thing. A rarity that is more a necessity for life than most beings think.

Right now, I'm feeling quiet; as if that is all I need to digest this rather interesting day. Some acts of silence are useful in a conversation; what is useless in a conversation should be muffled in the act of silence.

"He tried to steal something of mine, so I took something of his to assure he would never steal from me again...I cut off his hands." Quinn obviously doesn't feel the same way. At least not about this subject. I find it most displeasing that she keeps bringing it up, especially after my multiple attempts to turn it down.

I pause in my tracks and swivel slowly to face her. The aforementioned incredulity evident on my face; an expression of mildly humorous surprise, I'm sure.

"You really think I'm yours?" I cry out impatiently, having finally lost my nerve.

I focus accentuating my frustrations with each heavy tap of my foot that patters rhythmically beneath my crossed arms and deprecating glare; intent to continue this display until she understands its underlying meaning. She eyes me confusedly.

Retort leaps to her lips, "Out of everything I just told you and THAT's all you hear?" It's probably the most emotion, aside from mild contentment and anger that I've seen from the pirate this whole time I've known her.

I reciprocate an equally confused frown.

"Well, you have to admit, it does seem to be the _one_ thing anybody keeps reverting back to."

"For Christ's sake Rachel," she interjects, stepping closer in the process of her rant, "I told you I just cut off a man's hands! Doesn't that bother you in the least!? Isn't this the part where you lecture me about, I don't know, the wrongness of violence or some moral bullshit like that!?"

"Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head Quinn Fabray! You will get your lecture and then some on the many different wrong-doings you've acted in today! Don't think for one second that just because I'm not harping on that now that I have nothing to say on the matter! It's just...it doesn't seem as important in comparison to...other things." The last part is spoken in almost a whisper that almost has me questioning whether I actually said it out loud. Because the closer I get to audibly saying it, the more I realized just how ashamed I am of what that might mean.

My foot has stopped its impatient tapping. My arms remain crossed, but my body is drawn forward in daunting anticipation. I don't like coming to this. But with an artful dodger like her, I don't know how not to be at the end of my tether. It's like she enjoys getting a rise out of me. Like she only arms herself with the best quips and phrases, so she knowingly flutters the dovecoats. Goodness only knows that speaking to me this way flits mine up the most. Talking to me like I'm a child and telling me how I should respond to things that she knows nothing about. It gets me so fuddled and taken aback, I can't come up with something fast enough to fill the gap in conversation after my last suggestion still hangs in the air between us. After all, this particular pirate bandies adjectives with the best. All a girl can do at this point is stand here, clapped out in frustration and wait for a clear cut response. I hope I've relayed that expectation in a way she understands. You see, despite what others may say about me, I can be extraordinarily patient…provided I get my own way in the end.

Her voice, with a tentative question in it, rests in the air, "Come on...I wanna show you something."

That's not the reply I've been waiting for. You'd think a girl could stand before another in high prima donna fashion with demeanor determined by hook or by crook and finally get some answers around here. But there stands Quinn Fabray. My most dreaded and detested rival. The cold hearted and calloused degenerate; feared by man and beast all across the galaxy. Being resolute is a lost cause on her. She's too far gone in her malignant ways.

And yet…something eminently human beacons from her eyes. Dignity and sweet patience are in her look as she calmly awaits _my_ response. I must say, I am not used to this look coming from Captain Quinn Fabray. Suddenly overawed by a strange and delicious shyness, a warm kindling blood begins to burn at my cheeks like the breath of a hot wind. I suppose I don't have much say in the matter as she grabs my hand and pulls me along behind her into the glorious mountainside ahead.

* * *

><p>Minutes later, we slump breathlessly to the cool granite beneath us. She has pulled me to a peculiar little cavern only some ways up the steep terrestrial mountain. The shortage of breath is due in part to the race she suggested halfway up—the moment I could faintly make out the dark cavity that was to be our destination. Not one to easily decline in face of a challenge, I merely followed along behind and beat her to this spot—but that's neither here nor there. So, now I suffer the consequences of my decision through the ragged urge to supply myself with larger amounts of air.<p>

I'll admit, the race is only partially why I still find it hard to breathe—even after the moment to rest has appropriately passed. I gasp at the casual traces of her closeness as she slumps down to lie next to me on the chilled cavern floor. And while I may not be physically running anymore, my heart still beats as if I was. It's too hard not to get lost in every jot and tittle of the captain's fine features and the physicality of them all against mine. The soft fuzz of her arm hair brushes ever so lightly touching my own as she struggles to catch a decent breath as well. If I look past the surface of the hardened emotion held for the blond, it's easy to see it's really her nearness that just thrills me to bits—which is not as easy to deny as I'd like it to be.

The rocky ceilings of the cave don't distract me well enough not to notice. Oh, but how I wish they did, as I lie next to her boring my stare into the rocks above. Eventually it becomes too overwhelming. I close my eyes and try as I might to get my breathing back in a regulatory flow once again, though it doesn't help much. When that doesn't work, I pop up to a sitting position from my place on the floor, as if lying down had been the true cause of my troubles all along. I can do better than that. I'm better than to lie around and pine away at all the misunderstandings of life that I may never come to know.

As I sit up, I'm immediately met by a most gorgeous mountainside view of the faraway city, which is presented through the large rounded out hollow of the tavern. The scene is far more preferable to the up-close and personal picture I've had all day. And to think, just as I'd thought I'd finally found my peace with the lack of oxygen, my breath is once again, suddenly ripped from my lungs like a bandage from a wound. The city's still not much to look at, but the rest of the view surrounding the city—that includes the wild, uninhabited parts of the blacklisted world—proves to be more beauty than I'd ever dream this planet might harbor.

"Pretty, huh?" Her voice breaks me of a mild trance. For a moment, I'd almost forgotten she was even there. And the minute I turn my head to look at her, I immediately regret doing so. I think the world of her beauty and yet it stuns me to bits and bobs each and every time I take notice. What with that shining smile all bright and pointed at no one in particular. It's a star in its own right. She still sits close; propped up slightly by her elbows, staring out through the hollow with the most serene look fused to her face.

"Yeah," I answer slowly and softly, as if it would prolong the image before me. I would much like to freeze frame this in my mind forever. In an unspoken moment, she lights my insides in a loveliness that is just simply divine.

"Every time we come here, I take the time to come out to this spot and read or sometimes I'll play my guitar to the stars and the moon. It's the perfect place for inspiration, you know. Reminds me of what little beauty still remains among the cracks and crevices of the universe."

I nod my head readily in affirmation of what she says because staring at her right now, I couldn't agree more. And then she continues on,

"'_And this, our life, exempt from public haunt,_

_finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones,_

_and good in everything.'"_

Her voice is rich and vibrant like the middle notes of a cello. She stares out into the open skyline, speaking those words to everything outside these again, I marvel at how picturesque she can be in such a light.

Her eyes hold a twinkle of reminiscent pleasantry. Her hair is as golden as the tints of sunrise that light her face. Her cheeks furrowed by strong purpose and feeling. I hold my breath in admiring silence. It leaves a note of despairing appeal which falls like a cold hand upon one's living soul. How could she even make an insinuation such as that? Yes, I know this feeling. Even now, the menacing shadow of want creates the most unpleasing strain in my stomach like the vibration of a rope drawn out too fast.

This feeling grips me quickly. To have any hope of enjoying it, I need to deflect from where we are now. Everything has to slow down just a little more so I can get my bearings. And let it go on record, when these things happen—when these moments happen—no matter who they might happen with…

I want to enjoy them.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone the badass Captain Fabray has a sweet, sensitive side," I say with a slight smirk. It's my best attempt to pull back the reins. However, I can't do much about my playful side. It has been unleashed in the plentitude of her piquant ways.

"Oh my God, won't you please!? That would be great!" She retorts quickly. A husky sigh slips past her lips as if she'd been holding her breath for more than she could bear. She rolls over on the arm closest to me to better close that smidgen of distance between us. I look down into the usually more temperamental eyes and find that same something from before—rare and soft gazing back at me. That same something makes me want to get up and glow. I don't want to see it go.

"Okay. But first you've got to tell me how a blood thirsty pirate goes about finding a place like this in the first place."

"We all have our burdens, Rach. Who's to say I don't deserve a beautiful escape just like everybody else?" She says it with the utmost of ease. No trace of pain. No hint of judgement. No remnant of aggression. It remains nothing more than a verbal assuage of fact that not even I, the great debater of everything, could easily argue against. The deep concentration of her well-trained eye contact melts all my insides to a puddle in my belly. I love it when she looks at me like this. Her eyes are like a mirror, and I love looking into them and seeing nothing but the best of myself.

Then a sigh, so unbelievably angel-like in its deliverance, draws me back to her lips, "In the wise words of Shakespeare, 'it's hard out there for a pimp.'"

It just goes to show, that just when you think Quinn Fabray has very well charmed you into an inescapable stupor, she manages to say something like that and remind you of how it really is. I feel it imprudent not to show her my distaste for the comment and its inaccuracy. I'm still so caught up in whatever spell she's casted to be upset. If I'm even upset at all really. If I were, it would be for the way she still feels the need to push my buttons. Even in moments like these, when she allows me a glimpse into her soul. Sometimes she can be like a child trying to hide something from its parents. I fall into this trap too many times over. So it shouldn't come to much surprise I would do the same again this time.

"Quinn Fabray! You did not just butcher the work of a classical literary genius with the use of dreadful twenty-first century slang!?"

"Noooo…" She quirks an eyebrow mockingly, "I _enlightened_ the work of a classical literary genius with lyrics from a legendary rap artist. Three 6 Mafia is just as classic as your beloved Shakespeare, girl don't play."

I know she's just messing with me. She wouldn't have earlier been able to quote a line from Shakespeare's _As You Like It_ otherwise. While she has proved quite deficient in affectionate or tender impulses, I sense a slight redemption for the lack thereof in these wayward and strangely playful responses. Before I can stop it, impulse gives way to my inner most reflections. A giggle slips past my lips. I've never had someone pay so much attention to me before. Not even the crowds I entertain on a regular basis. I'm a sucker for these affections.

She jumps up from the ground in excitement.

"Oh! Come on, get up! Or you'll miss it!" She says animatedly and offers her hands to help me up from off the ground. Her sudden burst of energy confuses me.

"What? Miss what, Quinn?"

She doesn't respond immediately. In the same whir of excitement, she launches me to my feet and drags me to the entrance of the hollow. And once again, we stare off over the mountainside onto the beautiful uninhabited landmass that swallows the diminutive city. In fine fettle, I take in the glory before me once more. Only, the sky seems far darker than it was minutes ago. In fact, it turns so black in color, I can hardly see past the cliffside. But the feel of Quinn wrapped around me from behind is distracting. To the point that I wouldn't take much notice of any deviance should it come along with the obscurity of the black sky.

"Tell me Rachel…do you believe in magic?" She whispers against the underside of my ear, pressing tighter to my backside. Even as she does, her grip around my waist remains gentle and loose; as if she were unsure of how it made me feel but at the same time, she's afraid I might slip. Even though we weren't close enough to the edge that I might. I can feel each breath she takes each time the front of her chest meets my spine and it makes me shiver; she takes them in as if she's having trouble breathing once again. I certainly feel as such.

"I-I…I'm not entirely sure what you mean," I stutter back weakly.

"What if I told you that in a few seconds, I could show you the most magical thing you'd ever seen?" My knees give in to my weight because of the way her breath tickles at that sensitive spot beneath my ear. She pulls me even closer, so that she is now pressed firmly against my backside. Finally squeezing her arms tight around my waist. My body erupts in chills.

I try to keep what little cool veneer I've managed to establish with the domineering blonde. The air around still only gets darker and darker, and I should be more weary of its significance. I've never believed in magic. It's almost impossible to live in this day and age and believe in such drivel. The in depth teachings of science that has been drilled into us since childhood ruins any and every chance of anyone ever believing in something as farfetched as magic. Everything I know about the universe won't allow me to believe her. But, undoubtedly, I'm not as sure, as the twirl of something in the sky before us becomes almost mystical in display.

So, with all the confidence I left inside me I say, "I-I s-suppose I'd call you a liar."

"Well, then I guess that makes me a liar in 5…"each number is whispered even closer to my ear "4…"my heart leaps to my throat in anticipation "3…" she feels so good against my back "2…" she knows just how to make me melt as the last number is sealed with a kiss upon that same sweat spot she found earlier "1."

But that is not all that happens at the count of one. As soon as the word leaves her lips, torrential sprays of rain, like volleys of sharp arrows, beat gustily against the hollow of our cavern. But this is not just ordinary rain. A slow gasp of amazement and excitement glides through the entirety of my body. Starting in my toes and holding out all the way up until it fully escapes from my mouth—one might even mistake it for a low groan or a drawn out whimper. A shocking display of the brightest neon rain falls from the sky, coating everything below in a soft and purple mist like a vaporous amethyst. All breath is once again, immediately drained from my lungs at the marvelous sight.

"Oh my goodness…Quinn…it's…so beautiful," I choke out in awe of the, indeed, rather magical spectacle before me.

Good gosh gussie! There are so many things I want to do right now! I want to touch the glowing rain. I want to feel it as it lights up my face. I want to see the bright color light up her face too. I want to ask her why—how—if this is a dream. Oh, geez! I want to hug her as tightly as she's now hugged up against me. But I'm dumbfounded to a strange type of paralysis. I'm circumscribed to stand here in her arms, mouth agape, in wonder of the odd spectacle. I'd be proud of myself if I could just manage to speak. And I'm not all to sure I'm able to do even that.

"B-but how?" I manage to choke out after minutes of working myself up to it. She releases me from her grasp and moves to stand beside me. Almost immediately, I miss her warmth but am soon greeted and appeased by that favored glint of tenderness in her eyes.

"It's simple really. Neon glows red when an electrical charge is passed through it. All you really need is some type of discharge tube to serve as a vacuum system and a little electric shock. It's like all the neon signs in the city—seal some metal electrodes in a glass tube, remove the air to create a vacuum, run an electrical discharge through the low pressure pure gas contained within and there you have it…the annoyingly bright glow of a street full of strip club signs. It's not much different for a lightning storm really. The raindrops serve as the vacuum discharge tube and the lightning as the source of electricity."

It's a fascinating explanation; humorous and colorful in detail. However, it's not exactly what I was aiming to find out in my quest to understand "how."

"No—I meant…how did you know it was about to happen?"

"Oh, this kinda thing happens on this planet all the time. Most of these types of storms are easily scheduled….it's one of my favorite places to come because of it," She says, seemingly in just as much awe as I am. It truly is a wonder though. I could see this a million times over and still be fascinated by its sheer beauty every single time. I find it difficult to look away. It's captivating, much in the way neon typically is.

"Come on."

She grabs my hand in hers and starts to walk out into the heavy glowing rainfall.

"Wait!" I call out, stopping her in hesitation, "Is this even safe? Didn't you just say there was electricity in the midst of all this rainfall? Are you sure we should be going out into it all willy-nilly like this?"

"Rachel…" she groans; her voice has the coaxing inflections of a child, "Do you really think I'd lead you into something if I thought it would hurt you?"

"Sometimes I'm not too sure…I never know with you captain Fabray…in case you hadn't noticed, you're kind of a mystery to me."

She's already halfway out into the downpour. Her smile grows wider as she pulls me closer to her; and against my hesitation, I slowly follow the light pull of her hand.

"Well then I guess you're just gonna have to trust me then, huh?"

Just a few more steps and finally we are wrapped in the warm scudding rain. My muscles clench, expecting to feel pain that typically comes with the mix of water and electricity, but relax as they feel nothing of the sort. In fact, there's no feeling at all—other than what is to be expected of normal rain beating against one's skin. If anything, there are mildly stimulating pricks where the incandescent raindrops land one after the other. It's not too long before both of us glow in the same faint neon red as everything else around us.

Quinn is most enchanting in the luminosity of red afterfall. She stands, eyes shut, face up towards the sky, with a neon stream lighting up a most glittering, infectious smile. There's something too mystical—too bewitching—in the sight of such wondrous beauty. Perhaps I believe in magic after all.

She then looks at me, as if she could feel my eyes on her. As if she could hear my very thoughts about all I longed to do in this moment. How I want to hug her. How I want to feel her close to me again. How I want to….feel her lips against mine.

She slowly ebbs closer; it's as if she isn't even moving but rather, floating over to where I stand. Her eyes are black and glazed over with determination, though not in her usual self-assurance and more in a way that makes me feel as if she's about to ravish me at any moment. As if that is all she can think about right now. I gaze back; just as eager as ever to be ravished by her. It is all I can think about.

The closer and closer she gets, the harder my heart beats in my chest. And when she gets just close enough, it is only upon instinct my hands reach out to the lapels of her jacket. I've always loved the look and feel of a woman in a jacket. And the fact that this woman just happens to be _the_ Captain Quinn Fabray only makes this even sexier. I don't really know how it happened—if I pulled her or if she lunged of her own free will (possibly a little of both)—but in an instant the gap is closed between us and our bodies finally come together in a collision of passion. She runs a luminescent hand through my dampened hair and I whimper lowly at the sweet touch. Now the only palpable distance is the one between our lips. A distance I can't much more stand if it isn't closed soon. There's a kind of exhilaration in this subtle baiting. My eagerness might surely kill me. Quinn's lips. Yet another plausible way to die, and should be written down on my list as soon as possible.

"I'm going to kiss you now," she says quietly, as if she's unsure whether or not she'd be allowed to do so if she tried. But I don't have time for her timidities. I can't stand to wait any longer. I need her and I need her now!

Gathering all my scattered impulses into a passionate act of courage, I close that one last maddening distance between us, sealing any question left unanswered by the soft press of my lips against hers. It's a short, simple kiss—no more than a meeting of lips at first. Oh, but there is more fire and passion in that simple peck than anything I've ever felt before. I gasp at the intensity, unable to understand how something so simple can unravel me so easily. Then I whimper; in a desirous haze to taste her again. She reconnects our lips for a more prolonged and fervent kiss. My hands pull tighter at her jacket; desperate for her to be as close as I possibly might have her be against my trembling body.

I understand she is still a woman of ice—just as cold as the day she came into this universe. But one mustn't mistake her infamous coolness for a lack of passion. Jumping jelly beans, this blonde is the personification of passion. Oh my—and it's especially evident in the way she kisses. The way she lightly glides her tongue across the roof of my mouth, creating the most glorious explosion of fireworks across the inner networks of my brain. I have to pull away so I don't faint. Oh, but then a deep growl rumbles from her chest as she pulls me back to her lips again, hungrily seeking any opportunity I might allow her to repeat this same cycle again.

It's a lot like the hottest mid-summer I can remember back home on Lima. When the sun's rays scorch the skin to a state of pink irritation and the throat burns with the lack of proper nourishment. Oh and she—_she_ is that cool glass of ice cold water waiting perched on the window-sill. The coolness of the ice mixed with the intense heat makes the glass foggy as it sweats against the hot breeze; tempting you to indulge in the relief it has to offer. Then, a most unconquerable greediness consumes the mind as well as the body in need to quench this thirst. I hungrily drink her in like a glass of cold water on this most draining of days; relishing in the relief her coolness brings as it chills me from the inside out.

Only one sip, and suddenly that thick breeze doesn't feel as dry and suffocating as it usually does. The harmful amber rays of the sun become somewhat tolerable as they continue to heat dangerously across my sensitive flesh. I tremble in this sweet release and long-due satisfaction. But, similar as to what happens in every endeavor to quench a thirst, in the moment water is needed most—eventually, greed gets the better and the cup is drained. Drained to the last drop in that continuous desire for more….And, to your dismay…it's still not enough.

Naturally, when thirst remains unquenched, just refill the glass and drink more rapidly the fruits of your labor until you finally feel that satisfaction. That fullness that only a cool glass of water on a hot summer day can fulfill. If Quinn is the cup of water and I am her eager drinker exhausted by the heat of passion, then I am currently drowning in my attempt to quench my thirst for her. Like mountain streams we meet and part. And goodness in the light of the stars, I get the most nagging feeling it will never be near enough.

She slows us down.

If it were up to me, I would take from her until there was nothing of her left to take. I still clutch tight to the front of her jacket as our kisses slow to the point of actually taking breaths in between. Then again, to a softer play between just lips. And the one time I pull away, I pull her bottom lip with me, savoring the sweet taste of Quinn Fabray.

This tricks the softest sigh from her body.

"As much as I like kissing you, I think it's about time we head back…wouldn't want my crew to start worrying. They'd either send a search team out to find us or leave us stranded here to die. Either way doesn't look too bright for us, princess" she whispers after a moment of silence to catch our breath.

"You like kissing me?"

She chuckles lightheartedly as if she'd expected nothing less from me. And all I can think about is how I only want to entice more sounds like these from her succulent lips. But she dodges all my advances. And that just fiddles my sticks to no end.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that you don't ever listen too good when people have got somethin to say," she teases in that same, unmissed, narcissistic pirate captain kind of way. Even though now is not the time for this. Dear me, she's got me in such a fine fettle I could scream!

"And I'll go out on the same limb and guess that you don't ever answer 'too good' when formally asked a question," I reply haughtily. My arms slither around her neck in the same manner. You may have stopped the fight Quinn Fabray, but you will never win the war.

She leans closer, resting our foreheads together in the sweetest gesture of surrender.

"Touché again Miss Berry…touché."

* * *

><p>For the love of Oscar-winning Broadway stars, I am Rachel Barbara Berry. I grew up in a small town on a small planet, in a small but loving family. I have competed in sectional and national singing competitions across Lima, which has made me well known across the tiny little planet I call home. And while I never had many friends growing up and everyone seemed too caught up in the bustle of their own lives to see much of me, I have always felt their utmost respect every time I sing. Even if it is only when I sing.<p>

I was homeschooled throughout most of my rearing, but still received a full scholarship to Eplí College of Arts—one of the most well-esteemed universities in all of the gamma quadrant and subsequently one of the only reasons Lima continues to prosper as it does. I received two degrees from ECA; one in theatre and the other in environmentalist studies which pegged my growing interest in the preservation of life. This encouraged me to open and manage the first and only soup kitchen on Lima; spawned from the true efforts of my entrepreneurial spirit. I've never eaten another living creature—other than the plants of the earth—and take pride in the lives I feel I've spared because of this.

I have dreamed and I have accomplished all I've endeavored. There still comes to question my goal of becoming a star and traveling the universe as its most treasured entertainer. But I'm still young and have not yet reached the end of opportunity. _Some things take time_, I always tell myself. And the greatest desires in life must be chipped away, so that they are worth the effort it took to achieve them in the end.

I understand my experiences aren't as varied and profuse as the vast majority. And I know it takes all sorts to make a world. Even though my experiences are few and might seem insignificant to the average being, I know they have taught me more about myself than most, even today in this advanced time, would ever hope to know about themselves. I am not an overly-confident person. There are many things about myself I don't particularly like and would change, given the chance. But, through it all, I am proud I have always remained honest about who I am and what I represent. I've always known everything there is to know about me—down to even the most spiritual of levels. If I'm confident in anything, I am confident in that.

However, now, as Quinn and I playfully race each other back to the ship in the ominous rainfall, it seems as if none of that even matters. None of these things really mean anything in this world—in this lifestyle. Everything about it goes against everything I'd ever been taught; everything I'd ever learned about myself. In only a matter of months my world has managed to become so shaken and so distorted from what I know, that in moments such as this—moments in which I have the time to really mull it over—I question the integrity behind that of varied and profuse experiences. These types are always made out as if they are what make a being more cultured and wise. All this vast string of experience has left me feeling is tarnished and confused.

I look at Quinn: a great soul smitten and scourged but still invested within the dignity of mortality. Her lifestyle has given her many adventures and an abundance of experience, I'm sure. She most likely had a childhood very opposite of mine—one without multitudes of hugs and kisses or the confidant of obviously caring parents—that has caused her to live the kind of life she leads. The same could be said for her crew as well. The feeling of never truly having something or someplace to call your own and therefore scourging the universe, taking everything in her path. As if stealing, killing, and pillaging, were the band aid to her emotional wounds, and she never searched deep enough within to understand how temporary the comfort of a band aid can be. I sympathize with her though. At the least I know what it's like to feel as if you don't belong. Often enough in my life, the people of Lima have made me feel as if I weren't welcome—as if I wasn't good enough for them. At least I had two fathers and a family that showed me the utmost love and affection. At least I had a home I felt I belonged to. I don't think Quinn even has that. She might not be so quick to steal or kill if she did. Love and acceptance can soften even the toughest of hearts—I believe that is most true.

Quinn is my complete opposite. We have come from two completely different life experiences that have shaped us in a multitude of different ways. Beings like her stand for everything I have ever been against. I should be more repulsed. I should be fighting harder to get away from a person so distanced from themselves that a sense of morality has ceased to exist. If experience has taught me anything, it's that I know better than to associate with someone who is comfortable in this lifestyle. Yet, here I find myself…so unbelievably attracted to her from the moment I laid eyes on her at the bar back home.

She is life's greatest and most dangerous mystery and still, I have been curious about her from the very start. She has sparked my interest like no other. And that includes everything about her—the things she does, the life she leads, the good, the bad. There is a magnetism between us that I cannot explain. It manifests itself in the approval I seek from her. Since the moment we met, I have always wanted her to like me—to think things about me. What things, I'm not entirely sure, but the obsession behind it all is quite disturbing even to me. Overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it all, I attempted to mask it with rude comments and feigned disinterest—which is highly uncharacteristic of me in every way. Some of the things I've said to her have honestly shocked me as they left my lips. It very unusual for me to partake in the act of bullying or unkindness to any being. Most certainly to Quinn. Especially when one takes into consideration how much I've come to like her.

And this is exactly what bothers me the most about the whole situation. Quinn Fabray has shaken everything I've grown to predefine about myself in only a matter of months. All my core beliefs; all my practiced lifestyle and mannerisms; right down to my desire for acceptance beyond that which I already have that had always been enough for me…up to this point.

In time spent with her, I feel as if I've fallen apart; down to the very foundation of my soul. And the worst part…I still haven't figured out whether I truly like it or not.

"Rachel!" The blonde known as Brittany squeals manically as she races towards me and envelopes me in a big hug, "Oh thank the gods Q, you found her!"

She is just the sweetest little thing in the universe. Don't get me wrong, she's daft as a brush that one, but she is the kindest most thoughtful being I've ever met. To most, her wild outburst just now as Quinn and I approach the ship, would be considered annoying and childish. I can't begin to count all the times I'd been scorned for these similar qualities in me. And it's just that, she almost reminds me of myself a little—I mean, if I were a few feet taller and a few brain cells lesser of course.

She is exquisitely simple. And it is for that reason, in times like these, her wild obliviousness and innocence is greatly needed—appreciated even. My little reminder amongst all the gloom and self-rejection, that I'm not the only one with quirks. And it's okay to like that about myself every once in awhile, regardless of what anyone else thinks. I smile into her shoulder.

"There you two are! What the fuck, Q!? Where have you been? You comm'd me saying you'd found the midget hours ago!" The angry voice known as Santana calls out from the entrance to the ship. I'm guessing 'the midget' is me in this all exclusive dialogue. I could do without all this sarcasm and name-calling. It's as ridiculous as it is unnecessary. And I don't much care for her at all.

"Sanny, be nice," Brittany says again in response to the seething brunette, of whom doesn't challenge her back; satisfied in her scolding of Santana, she then turns to give me mine, with the determinate face of a mother and her finger readily pointed in my direction, "Now, I hope you learned your lesson about running away little Rachel. You should never run away from your problems because you'll have to slow down to catch a breathe eventually, and then before you know it, those darn problems have caught up. You should always confront them head on."

We may share similarities, the lucid blonde and I, however that does not mean I understand her in the slightest. If anyone were more of a mystery than Quinn, Brittany would definitely be a runner up. And even worse than that, this is the one thing she says that makes sense to me in an odd way. Somehow, I believe I've just learned a valuable lesson and its teacher being no other than the dim Brittany Peirce.

After she finishes scolding me, her demeanor changes once again and she squeezes my head back to her chest in desperation. "Oh, we were soooo worried about you! Especially Quinn! She practically stopped the world from turning just to find you."

Brittany hugs me tightly to her chest as if she really did, in fact, worry as much as she'd said. I chance a glance at Quinn, whose cheeks are more enflamed pink than I'd ever before seen across the dreaded Ice Queen. She'd kill me if I voiced it out loud, but dare to say, it makes her rather…cute. Great galaxies, I can hear her in my head already, refuting that statement with foul witticisms. A quality, that she doesn't realize, only serves to make her even cuter.

"Okay, blah blah blah…love fest over. Everybody inside now, there's too much to do and not enough time for this crap to interrupt the act of doing it!" Santana squalls, still attached to her spot at the entrance of the ship. Though, I have the feeling her eagerness to break this up has less to do with the emotion in the air or her readiness to go, and more about my close, prolonged contact with Brittany.

It's positively baffling how everyone else on this forsaken hunk of junk can be so vigilant and on the ball enough to trick others out of their most prized possessions, and yet they are so blind to the passionate romance these two obviously share. I knew from the moment I met them they were together. Santana never did come off as the type of girl that appreciates physical contact with other beings, but that night at the bar, she kept some sort of contact with the ditzy blonde every time I saw her. Brutes of Santana's caliber don't sacrifice their own comfort for just anybody. I want to say Brittany's a lucky girl to have pulled that quality out of the fierce girl, but for some reason there just isn't something right about that statement when I run it over in my head.

So, to appease Santana, I pull away from Brittany's strong hold and make my way up to the ship, with both blondes close in tow. The sight of the horrible pile of scrap metal these people call home immediately saddens me. Even if it wasn't the freshest of experiences, I much enjoyed the breather of natural air. It was getting really hard being cooped up on that ship for so long without losing my mind completely.

Begrudgingly I board the _Trinity_ once again, with no more than a sigh of goodbye to the freedom only existent outside the canister walls. Then, just before I can head off to the shower that I'm desperately in need of, a strange feeling of insecurity keeps me from wandering away.

"And, uh Q? Kurt dropped by looking for you a while ago. It's the most flustered I've ever seen the poor kamp bastard, and I was the one that almost burned down his shop last summer. I understand we gots a reputation to uphold and all, but damn girl! What did you do to him?" Santana's words are whispered quietly—secretively behind me. I don't completely stop, as not to attract the realization that I'm eavesdropping, however my feet barely move beneath me so I can hang behind for as much information as possible without having to strain to hear it.

"I didn't do anything to him San; I don't know why he's here! I dropped by to deal in a little organ-legging, since we're in town and all. I figured we could use the extra cash. Did he say anything? Anything at all? Like, how to reach him or how urgently I needed to get back to him?" Quinn whispers back, in a more collected manner than her counterpart and far more composed than anyone else in her seemingly dismal situation would be. I'm not sure what organ-legging is, and I make note to ask her about it later. I get the feeling it's probably not the most legal thing they deal in, but I'd still like to know.

"No. But lucky for you, he's waiting in your office now."

As they break apart from their secret confrontation, I scurry off ahead of them to appear as if I was never there from the start. Though, upon finding this information, my mindless tasks are long forgotten and I become even more interested in the story. Daddy always taught me that it's rude to involve yourself in other being's personal affairs, but, like a child, I am fascinated to learn more about the strange world I've been forced to live in. I want to understand more about organ-legging. I want to know why the peppy, upbeat jeweler we met with earlier today—Kurt, is it? Why he's all in a tizzy that no one seemed to have expected of him. But even more than that, I want to find out all I can about Quinn. Even if that only comes from inferences I've made in my own head as I watch her deal in everyday business.

I hide out behind the corner of her office until I hear the door slide shut behind both her and Santana. I hate to be such a Nosey Parker, but I just can't help myself. There are just some things I need to know and up to this point I haven't been getting any answers. It's a matter of swings and round abouts now—what you lose on the swings, you gain on the round abouts. After I'm sure they've entered the room, I creep over to the door and press my ear tightly to its cold metal surface. Muffled voices are heard through the steel barrier as I press even further to hear more.

"…_why are you here Kurt…" _

Quinn still sounds just as composed as ever. It's hard to make out at first, and I soon worry that my actions are pointless. All until I hear Kurt's loud outcries fill the room, much in the frantic manner Santana had mentioned earlier.

"…_please, this has nothing to do with the package! You've got a good pair of working lungs in there that are expected to find their way to Arcane X no later than tomorrow…."_

He rambles so quickly sometimes I lose some of the words to the cold door between me and the one who is saying them. Well, that, and the fact that I am slightly disgruntled at the fact that there might be lungs in the package Quinn is about to deliver. I'm suddenly scared to learn anything else about this dirty deal called organ-legging. I hope against hope I might have just misheard them in my attempt to nose around.

Surprisingly, this discovery is soon forgotten in the more intriguing discussion I hear next.

"…_I say we ditch the hobbit. Since she likes this place so much, just leave her here and bug out as soon as possible…" _

Well I never! I assume this is about me now. I scoff out loud, quietly to myself. This is just Santana being Santana. But still, how dare she talk about me like that! And how dare Quinn not punch her in the face for being so mean! The conversation only becomes more heated and subsequently more intriguing.

"…_we aren't leaving her hear San…"_

Thanks for finally coming to my rescue captain. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten who I was there for a second.

"…_the fuck Q! Haven't you been listening to anything Prancy Smurf here's been saying!? We've got the fuckin heretics on our case now…"_

Wait. What? Who are the heretics? And what does that have to do with me? For the love of Streisand, don't get quiet on me now!

"…_At first, when you brought her into the shop, she seemed…so familiar and I couldn't remember where I'd seen her before. I called Mercedes about it and she said she'd felt the same way when you introduced them earlier…then as soon as the heretic started snooping around, asking all kinds of interrogating questions about the two of you, I realized exactly who she is! I was shocked I had even missed it after I'd seen her face a hundred times on ultrawaved visiplates all across the blacklisted embassy… "_

I don't know what any of this means. It sounds important and like it could be potentially dangerous, but there are too many things that just don't connect for me. What's the blacklisted embassy? Why is my face on so many visiplates there? When they put your face on visiplates back on my planet that typically means you're wanted for a crime and will soon be caught. Am I a criminal in the land of criminals? How does that even happen?

Santana's voice buzzes through the barrier once more.

"…_it even got me thinkin, Q. I remember seein her face on visiplates back in Bastion. Now I know I'm one crazy ass bitch, but even I'm not crazy enough to fuck with any property belonging to those fucked up asshole—"_

Quinn interrupts her rant and I hold my breath in irritation that she would stop be from finding out more about the people that are supposedly after me.

"—_She's my property now! Maybe they should have thought of that before they lost her in the first place…"_

A puff of air releases from my cheeks. This again. Why does everyone keep assuming I'm someone else's property?

There's a long pause of silence, which at first causes me to believe I sighed too loud and have been figured out. But the door remains closed, and the three bodies on the other side are still undecided in their decision. Kurt then responds more quiet and calm than he'd been all evening.

"…_you know they've been looking for her for years—decades even. And you've seen what they're capable of when they want something. As a business partner I advise you to do whatever you need to do to cut this deal and be about your way. But as a friend…you know as well as I do, if they want her, they are gonna do whatever it takes to get her, and as your friend I advise you to get her out of your hair as soon as possible…"_

In his last words, all my life breaks up, like some great river's ice at touch of spring. Only this time I don't think I'll find my way back to myself as easily. In a very literal sense, I don't know who I am. Who is even there to go back to? Kurt continues to speak and the other two continue to listen, as do I. It seems we are all a little curious to figure this one out.

"…_I don't know exactly who Rachel Berry is, or why she's sparked such interest in those blasted necromancers…All I do know is she's not just some random girl you plucked off the merchant planet of Lima…and whether she knows it or not, Quinn, she's not what she appears to be…she's not the girl you think she is and you're going to land yourself in a shitheap of trouble if you don't learn to accept that—and fast…None of us knows who Rachel is, but one thing's for sure, she's wanted. She's wanted by the Heretics and that's just about the worst thing a being could be…" _

—


	7. Let's Blow A Hole in This Town

**I apologize, in advance, for the prolonged delay. I'm not going to sit here and spout out excuses as to why it took me so long to write this because in the end they didn't get this chapter to you any faster. All I can offer is an apology for taking so long and ask in the sweetest voice ever that you please forgive me...**

**Fate-187 made a really good point, that the biggest issue everyone has with taking so long to update is that by the time I finally do, they've forgotten what has happened so far in the story. And while I can't make up for lost time or write any faster than my schedule and lifestyle allow, I think I may have found a solution to this problem. So, below I have provided a brief recap of all the important events that have happened in the story so far...I know that it doesn't make up for my lack of promptness, but I'm hoping it's enough to keep everyone interested in the story...because I'm still determined to finish it, regardless of how it may seem.**

**Story Rating: M ...because yes. **

**Chapter Rating: ****T and a half for violence and an instance of Quinn Fabray topless ;)**

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own the title to Glee or any of it's characters. I am just borrowing them for my own selfish pleasures and will return them slightly used when finished...maybe.**

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><p><strong>Recap:<strong> _The story of our heroes began when Captain Quinn Fabray's ship, the Trinity, took a turn for the worse and crash-landed on the merc planet of Lima, which much to the dismay of Quinn and her crew, happens to be deep within Coalition territory. Fortuitously for Quinn, they happen upon a bar in which they meet the ever-endearing Rachel Berry who immediately sings her way into Quinn's fancies. But little does Rachel realize, this time isn't like it usually is for the dreaded Captain Quinn Fabray. One night, on the way back to her ship after singing a song and being rejected for the umpteenth time, Quinn senses something isn't right and rescues Rachel from a raid of Demagogues; narrowly escaping in the nick of time aboard the moderately restored Trinity. Scared off by the raid of Demagogues, engulfed by the threat of Coalition territory, and subjugated to a "surprise adoption," the Trinity and her crew seeks refuge in the only place they know to go: blacklisted space. Which happens to be a very, very, very, very long ways away from Coalition territory. So, in the throws of the most progressive tomb fever, they plod on for months in attempt to reach the wormhole that will bring them out right at the rim of blacklisted territory. In that time, locked away in the ship, they'd managed to 1) Somehow appoint Rachel in charge of med-bay, 2) have deep discussions about Quinn's feelings while using the restroom, 3) Find out Puck can do wonders with a plunger, 4) had the brilliant idea to shoot spit-wads at the ceiling of the cockpit after getting wasted, 5) Ruined Brittany's antique book collection, 6) both wake up half-naked in the same bed after their night of careless drinking, 7) tell Rachel about the demise of her fathers, sending her into a long and quite depression, 8) hang strips of bacon, a quincenera dress, a locket, and little notes that read "rectangles amuse Gino" over the shower stall, 9) And then lose Rachel as soon as they land on the Pirate planet, Perdu X. We see the devastations of the criminal world through Rachel's eyes as she wanders the streets of the planet's most dangerous city. Quinn recaptures her—once again in the nick of time—and they make their way over to a pub where they meet Mercedes. Some stuff happens with a Psuedokin, Quinn gets pissed and cuts off his hand, and Mercedes recommends they meet up with Kurt at his jewelry shop down the street in order for Quinn to find work. They meet up with Kurt—who acts weirdly around Rachel—and he gives Quinn the job she'd been looking for in the form of a package that needs immediate delivery to a guy on Delphian X. Quinn pulls Rachel off to her favorite mountainside before they go. Cue the neon rain. They kiss. It's romantic. And then they get back to the ship, where Kurt is waiting to reveal the news about Rachel—who listens in on the conversation meant for Quinn's ears only and discovers a big secret about herself that she'd never known. Well, technically, she still doesn't know what that secret is EXACTLY, but she does know that it exists and that it means her life is in grave danger. Danger that presents itself in a new form of villainy...the Heretics! *gasps OH MY!_ **:End Recap**

_And now we continue on in the story of our heroes..._

_Still Rachel's point of view..._

**Let's Blow A Hole in This Town and Do Our Talking with the Laser Beam**

Quinn and I are tied up sitting side by side in front of a fountain at the centermost of the universe's most renown blacklisted market. People walk by as if nothing is wrong, not even bothering to glance at our tied up wrists or bruised and beaten bodies. Our arms are tied tight behind our backs and our feet are tied together out in front of us. I retract any previous liking I might've had before for Delphian X. This place was too good to be true. It's filled with just as many criminals and rude people as every other place in the blacklisted cluster.

But this is not where the story begins. If anything, it has ceased to be much of a story up to this point. Well, at least up to the moment that lead to this point. Perhaps I should start there instead.

Our story really begins the morning before Quinn and I find ourselves bound and helpless in front of a fountain in a blacklisted marketplace. Just as much as it did not start the way in which it was first introduced. No—

Rather, it all starts with silverware...of all things, eating utensils and the rotten beings that use them...

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><p>Start from the outside and work your way in; using the silverware farthest from your plate first. Eat to your left; drink to your right.<p>

The food dish to the right is yours as well as the glass. To your left, the first utensil farthest from the plate is a salad fork, followed by the dinner fork, and closest to your plate is the desert fork. Then farthest to your right starts the soup spoon, followed by the teaspoon, followed by the dinner knife. But you never really need to know this in order to have good manners. It's an incontestable fact that if you start from the outside and work your way in as course-by-course is served, no one would ever be able to tell any different. In other words, any time spent remembering anything beyond that would be wasted time indeed.

Though I, personally, am glad I took the time to study up on the specifics of dinner etiquette. It was always something that seemed like it would be important to know. Like a skill I might one day need. However, I expected that day to come in the form of some new audition for a play that might require such knowledge. In my case, it's a skill I have spent many a year studying to perfect for that very same reason.

That, and my fathers used to host Lima's very own "Driving Mrs. Daisy" dinner once every year. A highly prestigious montage that I would be a fool not to attend—much less attend, lacking even the slightest ounce of preparation. At these dinners, we were to dress as characters from the old play production and act out as much of it as we could, all the while hosting a dinner party open to any and all citizens of Lima who wished to participate.

Not many showed up—being that we weren't the most popular family in all of Lima—but with the few who did, it truly was a wonderful event.

I would always fight with daddy over who got to be Boolie's wife, Florine. Of course, I'd always win. Daddy plays a better Miss Daisy anyways and I'd never pass up the opportunity to play the same role as that of the beloved Patti LuPone!

It is also an incontrovertible fact that dinners on the _Trinity _are conducted in a manner that is eerily reminiscent of these nights. They are always formal and every crew member is expected to attend them—although this remains an unspoken rule between the three. Though it is not the finest, the table is set just in the way I'd described before: with all the bits and bobs of dinnerware placed in a precise location before each of us.

Much in the way you wouldn't expect a gang of pirates to approach a meal, they arrive on time as silently agreed; carrying that same practice of silence all throughout the course of the meal. They courteously wipe their faces at the slightest threat of a messy disposition. They utilize their dinnerware in the order old-world etiquette so eloquently dictates. And they've not once expected anything different from anyone who joins them. Of which I reference myself and would willingly admit the struggle I face in keeping up with such rules that seem second nature to the rest of the group. Discouragingly odd, for lack of a better word.

Unfortunately, though, I don't think that at this dinner party I play my beloved role of Florine. I think, at this particular go round, I might actually be Miss Daisy. Or so it would appear to any native Liman of whom ever attended those "Driving Miss Daisy" dinners.

Here is this group of beings with a label. A label that has subjugated them to a certain way of life and a certain expectation to maintain the lifestyle that goes along with it. They are the one thing we are taught as kids not to be. We're told horror stories growing up of all the terrible things these types of people do and we are constantly reminded of why they were banished by the government and sent away to live amongst themselves along the outer rims. And much like Miss Daisy, this is what we are raised to know. They are not like us. They are incapable of ever being like us. And this makes them inferior because of it. Up until now, I honestly believed all pirates were bad beings, with atrocious manners and horrible hygiene. Incapable of good—incapable of change. Most certainly incapable of proper dinner etiquette.

Yet here three pirates sit before me now, dressed their best for every dinner with a fancy setting of silverware and utensils, civilly eating a well-prepared meal without a word. And I look like the barbaric dinner guest just because I'm having trouble remembering every little nit-picky rule of old-world etiquette—that I've only ever practiced at theatrically reenacted dinner parties, mind you.

It is fantastical. It is perplexing. And altogether fascinating at the same time.

They still don't know that I know what was said about me behind the closed doors of Quinn's office. And because the awkward silence of this formal dinnertime is customary of the three pirates, I'm not sure if tonight—or any night's mealtime would be an appropriate time to bring the subject up. I find I'd rather prefer to, though...and relatively soon, too. It's been heavy on my mind for awhile now. So much so, it's surprising that the weight of it all hasn't already crashed through the barrier that separates my head from my mouth, keeping the words from slipping past my lips so casually.

Either way calls to question why I feel like the odd man out in this group. What is it with this blasted silence?

Maybe they are quiet just for the sake of tradition. Then again, maybe this particular instance is different. Maybe each of them are wordlessly mulling over what they should do to me now that I'm such a threat to their operation. Neither way addresses the subtle hint of awkwardness that can't be explained about this particular gathering. Neither way explains the purpose of having so many utensils laid out before us in frivolous attempt to seem proper.

"Okay crew," Quinn announces, though only once each and everyone's knives and forks lay face down across their plates in signal that they are finished eating, "So, as you know, we land at the Delphian X docks bright and early tomorrow morning. This package has a time-line and we're expected to get it to where it needs to be with respect to that. So the sooner we can get that delivered and out of our hair, the sooner we can get out of here."

Santana snorts her disapproval as she leans back in her chair, kicking her feet up on the table. I suppose manners are reserved only for actual meal time—with meal time, in pirate terms, being defined as only the moments with which one is stuffing one's own face with food. I suddenly wish there were more food to eat so that the girl's putrid feet would so promptly clear themselves from the table.

"Yeah Q, 'cause delivering stolen organs to a dude on his deathbed is totally the start to a really 'fun' day."

What did she just say!? Organs!? Stolen!? Deathbed!?

My face heats up with tempered dissuasion and perhaps something more along the lines of empathy for the being that no longer is in possession of their own organs.

"Those organs are stolen Quinn!? What does she mean by 'stolen!?' Please tell me that 'stolen' in your terms has an additional meaning in this context that I was previously unaware of and that you don't really mean it in a way that implies you've actually 'stolen,' stolen another innocent being's bodily organs!" I diligently prod in one lungful of air. When they had originally introduced me to the concept of "Organ Legging," I knew it couldn't have been the most permissible job in the universe. But I never guessed it might've been something as outrageous as this.

"Okay…it doesn't mean what you think it means and does mean whatever you want it to mean—" Quinn responds rather sarcastically. I don't much appreciate the sentiment.

"Oh please! It means exactly what you think it means, Niblet. Don't listen to Q. Organ Legging is when you take the organs of one creature and give 'em to the rich dude who can offer up more money to have 'em in the first place. It's not fuckin rainbows and sunshine! It's a dark gig, but it pays good if you got the balls to do it!" Santana explains.

While I'm not particularly fond of how the news was delivered, I respect the fact that at least the Latina was honest with me. Despite what Quinn might think, I don't need coddling. I'm a big girl and can handle the truth—no matter how gruesome the details. She wants to protect me from every little thing but, realistically, there are some things she just can't protect me from. And the truth is most definitely one of them. I deserve to know what's going on just as much as anyone else at this table does, and I expect her to treat me as such.

I don't prod any further. Santana's answer is sufficient enough.

"Santana! Get your God damn feet off the table and stop being such a smartass!" The blonde snaps authoritatively, raising her voice with each word. Her rising temper the most prominent display in her posture right now. It commands respect. So much so, that not even Santana is rebellious enough to ignore such an order.

The dark haired girl rolls her eyes and peevishly kicks her feet to the floor like she was told.

Brittany's hand settles gently on my shoulder.

"It's okay Little Rachel, these people don't even know we took their organs so they don't get too upset about it," she chimes in softly, obviously discomfited by the commotion caused by the previous disagreement.

But she doesn't understand the repercussions here! This is taking another being's life for profit! This is a matter of life and death we're talking about. It's not as simple as Brittany's mind might have it. At least not for me it's not!

How can everyone here talk about this as if it's nothing? As if this were just another job? As if they weren't taking an innocent being's life in order to sustain another's of whom probably doesn't deserve a life-extension if they are willing to stoop so low in order to do so.

"That's because they are most likely dead, Brittany! They wouldn't know it happened if they weren't alive to tell the difference! Would they even have a say in the matter otherwise!?" I cry out on the verge of tears. Nothing pulls at my heartstrings more than the death of an innocent creature. What scoundrels for taking the situation so light-heartedly. What monsters for agreeing to partake in such an act of cruelty!

"Come on Rach…that's enough for now…we can talk about it more in detail later, okay? Just try to let it go for now," Quinn says calmly to the threat of my most eminent tears.

"You're about to sell someone organs Quinn. Organs that were stolen from another being's body! A body that will no longer enjoy the gift of life because beings like you ripped that away just so you could make a quick profit! Tell me how I'm supposed to just let something like that go so easily? It's an uncivilized, rotten act and I refuse to be a part of it!" I huff indignantly. The idea that they could act so low—I turn my nose at them in contempt. My arms folded tightly across my chest, feeling a slight comfort in the warmth generating between them and my body.

My attention turns down towards the center of the table by default as they continue on in a conversation that I am not as involved in as before. My hands grip tighter to my arms. My eyes close in the moment of momentary distraction as I try to shut off my thoughts and fall in line with the hum and buzz of newfangled argument. It's almost uncanny how quickly my mood seems to have effected everyone in the room.

"Well, lucky enough for you, you don't have to…Now, as I was saying we'll arrive early in the morning and I want to deliver this thing first thing. So, Puck and Santana, you'll be my ground squad for delivery—"

"Uh, Q…there's one problem with that plan so far," Noah interjects anxiously, "I can't go with you guys on this mission—actually, I probably shouldn't even leave the ship because 'you know who' lives here."

I don't know who 'you know who' is. But the way in which he says it makes whoever it is sound like a complete and utter monster. There is a certain energy fluttering about the room that makes it difficult to feel calm. The constant array of movements that occur from each end of the table have me anxious and equally as agitated as everybody else.

"Really Puck!? I thought you took care of that thing you had with Cindy Rouseman," Quinn sighs with annoyance.

"Not _that _'you know who,' the other 'you know who' that lives here. You know…the mechathief that lives on and practically runs Cyra."

"No way! It can't be _that_ 'you know who!' Tell me it's not who I think it is!" Quinn says, slightly more frazzled than I've seen her in a while.

"Yeah, wish I could, boss mama but unfortunately that ain't gonna happen. I pissed her off awhile back and now I gotta hit on my head so big I wouldn't even make it all the way off the loading dock alive. She's got people everywhere and they'd probably kill me on sight."

I feel responsible for the sudden negative shift in mood. An unexplained guilt boils in my chest. If it's true—if I did, in fact, cause this drastic change in mood, I shouldn't feel so badly about having done so. Intentional or unintentional, my mind reminds me of just who they are. That they are a group that would engage in atmospheric arguments like this on a regular basis—with or without my emotional encouragement. I shouldn't let the fact that they practice highly civilized methods of dinner exchange prior to these outbursts blind me to their true nature.

And then there's my heart. Not bothering to care who they are, what they've done, where they come from, or why they are the way they are. It always expects more out of me. Sometimes even more than what I have to offer.

I could never ignore a heart. Any heart. Had this been a normal situation, I would attempt to rectify that anyway I could. However, given the unconventionality of my situation, as it occurs in this moment, makes performing "normal" acts a wholly unprecedented and wayward task. I once again close my eyes, focusing all the energy in my tiny body on feeling something positive and doing so in a way that will somehow diffuse outward into the space around me. As foolish as it may be for anyone to believe something like this might actually work, it doesn't stop me from doing so. I will at the very least try.

"Wow Puckerman. You sure know how to choose 'em huh?" Santana mocks in between hoarse spells of laughter. Her sarcastic additions to the conversation don't make my concentrated effort any easier.

"Shut up San, this doesn't concern you!" Noah snaps at the brunette who is bent over in laughter.

If anything, her disrespectful interjections bring me right back to our conversation only minutes ago. She showers her subordinate with the same selfish disregard she had for me. And it causes that same whirlwind of emotion to slowly stir at my innards, beating and terrorizing what's left of my only recently liberated resolve.

I still try as hard as I can to radiate a contrasting emotional vibe. But there is no stopping the underlying anxiety that serves as the crumbling foundation upon which any and all of my momentary feelings are uncontrollably based.

"Hey, chill out douchetard. Alls I'm sayin' is, maybe she forgot about you. I mean, let's face it, you aren't really all that significant enough in the first place, especially to buy up the time of someone like her. Plus, that bitch never much cared for me too much. She doesn't usually like to cross my path after what I did to her back in academy. Once word gets out that beast box Lopez is in town, she won't bother leaving that stupid little moon of hers! I'll protect you Pucky, don't worry," Santana chides confidently.

Somehow I think the Latina revels in such whirlwinds.

"I don't need your protection! I don't need anyone's protection! It doesn't matter if she don't like you or anyone for that matter! I can guarantee you right now, what I did was bad enough that she'd fight off a galaxy of people just to find me and see to it my head meets the right side of a bullet! She may hate you or is scared of you or whatever bullshit you've made up in your own damn head, but that won't mean nothin'! I can't be seen on that planet, not next to you—not next to no one!"

"You're going Puck. End of discussion," the blond says; with solidarity not much unlike the steel walls of the very ship she commands.

But steel is rarely ever comforting. You wouldn't need a firsthand experience with the metal. It only ever takes knowing this side of the ruthless blond to know that it's true.

"Can't you just take B instead—"

"NO!" Both Quinn and Santana scream out almost immediately in such a passionate outcry of something that can only mean one of two things.

The mood around me noticeably changes in the few seconds of quiet offered by the outburst. Both the captain and her second in command stare bitingly in Noah's direction. Their simultaneous reactions mirror each other's in such a likeness, it would almost appear as if they'd felt the same way. And there are only two reasons such a reaction might be evoked.

An unsettling feeling pulls at the pit of my stomach. And it's no longer anxiety.

I understand the Latina's need to so graciously defend the less than cognizant blond. It is no secret that she is madly in love with her. It's so obvious you wouldn't even need eyes to fully see. But I am increasingly confused by the behavior of her counterpart. Why was Quinn so quick to defend the girl?

My stomach turns again. This time, there might be a little anxiety. Whatever it is, it makes for a third move as the blond cuts through the quiet that had effectively built around us.

"Now listen here, Cracker Jack…real men have zippers in their uniform trousers. So I expect you wake up bright and early tomorrow morning, put your big girl panties on, and zip up the damn illusion that you're a real, grown-ass man...okay?"

He doesn't respond. Only hangs his head in defeat. A sign of forced submission. I've seen that look before. On the faces of children who have spent the majority of their lives being abused. That is the look of someone who feels as if they've had everything taken from them. And the way Noah's donning it seems like it far extends the way he has been treated here today. It precedes his time with Quinn.

And just as suddenly as to be expected from this group, the entire mood shifts once again. This one being just as equally uncomfortable, though in a way that is sad and mutually misfortunate. Even Santana is suddenly calmer than before, holding herself back for the sake of condolences...for the sake of understanding. I want to help Noah. But sadly, I wouldn't even know where to begin.

"Oh my God, Puck! I like, LOVE playing dress-up! But tomorrow, you should let me help you with your costume, 'cause you do a pretty bad job looking like someone that's not you...you do a bad job looking like someone that _is _you too," Brittany chirps brightly, in a way that would imply that she hadn't the faintest regard for social cues. But I hadn't missed the look she gave him too. The fellow feeling radiating from her as if she'd made it her life's mission to never see him frown for that specific reason ever again. As if masking it all up with feigned playful incomprehension would save him from a lifetime of hurt.

But wait a minute! Quinn perks up at what appears to be akin to the sudden revelation I have inside my own head, spurred by Brittany's seemingly irrelevant outburst. The captain's face twists and turns in a manner that reminds me of a dog when it senses its owner is about to reward a treat as the blue-eyed blond genius continues to rant, presumably having misinterpreted what Quinn meant by making Noah the illusion of a man.

"-I could like, totally do your make-up and pick out some clothes and you would be almost impalatable to the untrained eye."

Everyone stares at the cheerful girl with a confused dazed expression. As, I'm sure, everyone who ever even comes in contact with Brittany does candidly upon knowing her. But I can't allow this opportunity to pass up. Thanks to her, I think I know a way to help Noah.

"I think you mean impalpable, Britt."

"Oh, yeah...sure Rach. Whatever you say."

"But that's beside the point...you know, I think Brittany might be on to something here," I tell them animatedly, hands waving about before me as if I could communicate my message through them alone.

I mean, I don't think this will help with any of his deep-seeded emotional issues, but I do think it's a valid solution to his current problems with 'you know who.' At the very least it will solve any tension between he and Quinn, who is still quite resolute in her decision for him to go.

Now that I've made that comment without immediately backing up my support of such an idea, everyone's eyes hone in on me. Giving me that same look they were giving Brittany only a few seconds ago; watching me as if I'm the one who spout outs random nonsense on a regular basis. For a brief moment, I wonder if this is what Brittany feels like when they look at her this way. I wonder if she thinks about it as thoroughly as I do; if she even notices at all! More than likely, not.

I look to her for answers and nothing remains there, aside from the sweetest ignorant smile across her face. And suddenly, I wish I could have her level of perception. Then I wouldn't feel as uncomfortable as I do now with everyone eyeing me in the awkward silence I created. I swallow my nervousness in the form of overproduced saliva gathering at the front of my mouth and push myself to further explain. It's a wonder I was even able to that under the pressure of their stares.

"So...you're saying...we should EAT Puckerman?" Quinn states quizzically, although the hint of sarcasm hidden beneath the curious tone is not lost on me. And to think, I was fairly certain she was thinking the same thing as me a moment ago. Unless this is just her way of teasing me. Playing it off for goodness only knows what reason when it comes to the exasperating captain.

"No, Quinn..." I retort dryly, "I mean, just think about it. We dress Noah up in a disguise that's the complete opposite of what he looks like now and just like that, the wanted man becomes invisible. He would be able to walk around in broad daylight without anyone even hinting at the possibility that it might be him. You don't lose a henchman and Noah doesn't lose his life. Easy fix."

Quinn holds my determinate gaze; with squinted eyes and quirked eyebrows. The cogs in her head practically spinning loud enough for the entire ship to hear. Though I'm certain she's been mulling it over in her head for quite awhile now. The corner of her lip quirks up into a half-smile that appears as crooked as the meaning behind it.

"Puck, be in the privy at 0700 universal. Bring nothing but yourself. Rachel, Brittany...you're giving Puckerman a makeover..."

* * *

><p>Make-up of all varieties lay strewn about every counter-top around me. Heat from the numerous hair styling devices warms the room to a temperature slightly above that of the average human body, progressively pulling at the small beads of sweat fighting to escape the pores of my skin. So many smells perforate my senses from the various hair products and body sprays being misted everywhere, it's hard to breathe. The kind of perforation that causes a person to forget they had a sense of smell in the first place; to the point of no longer having the ability to differentiate one scent from another. Enough that even the smells that are typically considered appealing to the nose, suddenly become bland and out of reach.<p>

And still...I'm as focused as ever.

I stare reflectively into Noah's face. Eyes searching across his broad features, struggling to find any flaw against the image in my mind.

There are many.

Noah stares back submissively. Unaware of my mind's images and without much hope left to rely on otherwise.

I should explain.

Being as studied as I so am in the ways of theatrical disguise, I took no hesitation in agreeing to participate in Noah's fashioning. Brittany obviously joined along for the "fun," as she so puts it (and as Quinn so ordered it). As much as I'd like to agree with the chipper little blond and attribute my eagerness to partake in such an event to the likes of "fun," I cannot wholly claim this is true.

I love the theater and I find dabbling in the plays of stage makeup highly enthralling. But this particular application isn't about fun. Though much would be needed after the events of these past few months, I'm afraid my intentions are far more selfish than that.

While this journey has had it's moments that lack the usual sense of frolic and reverie, it lacks further more in the displays of familiarity. I've barely recognized anything or anyone—including myself—since I was uprooted from my little home in the sky, and the sudden loss makes me feel lost and out of place. So much so, the slightest hint of familiarity leaves me headstrong for more.

I'm not familiar with anything like I am theatrical makeup. I know the techniques almost better than I know myself. I could recite them in my sleep and effectively disguise a face so that you'd never know there was a predefined person underneath. As a woman of the theater, I take pride in that fact. As a natural-born thespian, I live for it. And suddenly, in the throws of a rather strange captivity, what once seemed a tedious, daunting task is now the only thing I cling to in a plead for some form of familiarity.

Among the abnormalities and foreignness of this world, I grasped at the opportunity to disguise Noah from Barbra knows what kind of trouble. I'd like the chance to shine like I once did. Even if it means doing the makeup of the being receiving all the attention. It's still unclear why. I'm not all too sure the answer's relevant.

I tap the brush across varied spots on his face, attempting to hide those prominent features that give him away so easily.

Noah is quite fetching in red. It works with his dark eyes and strong jaw. It's a shame he doesn't wear the color more often or perhaps all those doltish lines he wastes his time spouting about might actually start working.

"I like Puck in red, so I picked this out," Brittany says at precisely the right moment as she appears from around the corner with some article of clothing draped over her arm. Now that was convenient.

She holds the outfit up before me and I couldn't be more pleased with the selection hanging lifelessly from the hanger.

Noah's eyes widen noticeably in hesitation—or embarrassment, rather.

"There is no way in hell I am wearing THAT!" He acknowledges loudly, cringing at the sight. My eyes roll with an exaggeration of their own volition towards his unjustifiable hesitancy.

"Oh don't be silly Noah, it's not that bad," he scoffs at my assurance, "Would you rather be tortured to death by a vengeful killer? Of whom obviously wants your head on a stick?"

"Yes." He doesn't hesitate to answer.

And apparently, that's all it takes to flutter Brittany's dovecoats.

"You're wearing it. End of discussion. Now go get dressed before Q and Sanny come by to get you, Missy" the blond scolds, handing him the garment and pushing him to move into a stall. He groans at the mention of his two superiors. A gesture I have no sympathy for in the slightest.

I'm almost stunned slightly stupid by the blond girl's initiative. But she's right as pie, smiling like the suns at the center of the universe as she comes back over to where I stand behind the vanity, both gawking in amazement and awaiting Noah's big reveal.

"Nice job on the makeup Rach!" she says from beside me, "But you might want to add a little more around the eyes. They're just so dark, it totally gives him away."

Something about that remark doesn't sit well with me. And not because it was said any particular way or in a manner that implied anything more than a simply stated request. I honestly don't know what it is.

I have to busy myself searching the clutter of make-up just to get away from its presence. But it still leaves an uncomfortable feeling deep inside my gut.

Noah reemerges from the stall in the nick of time, all dolled up in his disguise; and Brittany squeals in excitement—oh so pleased with the way his outfit has turned out. He groans again as she pulls him back down to the chair for finishing touches.

A long flowing wig full of glorious brown locks drapes to his bare shoulders. He sits very unlike any lady I've ever seen before (probably due to his extra appendages) in the most glorious red dress made of the finest velvet polyester blend. If he were standing, he'd tower over me at a full half foot taller than he usually does thanks to the gargantuan heels strapped to his feet. Enough makeup donnes his face that you could never tell he was another person before this point. At this point, it's safe to say, Noah is completely unrecognizable.

A high pitched girly gasp of shock rings out across the entire ship as we turn him towards the mirror to reveal the results. And it most definitely did not come from me or the blond grinning manically beside me.

"Ah! My hair!" He screeches, hands grabbing at his new hair.

I'll indulge a little shock at such a transformation. I'm still a little shocked myself.

"My face!" his hands move across his face.

I want to get started touching up his make-up, but once again allow him the opportunity to adjust to his new look instead.

"My clothes!" he touches his clothes.

I sigh. This is getting old really fast.

"My boobs!" he touches the formations at his chest, "Wait-my boobs?" He squeezes the now present breasts with a sense of satisfaction, suddenly not as upset with his drastic transformation. I widen my eyes in shock. This is about to get far too inappropriate for my tastes.

"Heh. My boobs." He starts playing with them in a highly indecent manner and I slap his hand away to stop him from getting any more weirder. He frowns a little at the gesture, but doesn't try anything else. And I ready him for his finishing touches.

As Quinn and Santana enter the room, they are quick to chastise Noah for his relatively non-masculine attire. And as to be expected of him, he defends that honor to the bane of his existence. A routine banter that I am only just beginning to find highly annoying and most assuredly primitive in nature.

It's little instances like these that dissuade from the theory that all living creatures remain dynamic over time; ever-changing in a need to constantly flourish and preserve the greater race. This crew remains static. They have not changed from who they were the moment they entered this world, however that may have been. They have not changed from the ancestors of their ancestor's ancestors. Yet another sad reality sent to further dampen my relatively improving mood.

It is always discouraging when you discover your beliefs are no more than mere stories to pass the time. This one being the biggest fairy-tale of them all to make the living feel more justified in doing so.

Then, speaking of fairy-tales and justification, I notice the way Quinn is dressed.

I find it odd that today—of all days—Quinn has chosen to wear a hat. Oh, but not just any old hat, she has chosen a modest tricorn hat that looks as if it were made especially to fit her head. And it's not the atypical tricorn hat one might automatically reference from old pirate stories of early ancient times. It reminds me more of the ones a highwayman would wear. The style that has been prevalent to those deemed with such a title since the English language was invented. There are no gaudy feathers hanging from the sides or fancy trims to decorate the rims. In fact, the only resemblance of decoration are the Trinity's crest (that remains so faded it's hardly noticeable at all) on one side, and the markings that symbolize Quinn's rank on the other (of which seem purposely noticeable as if she wouldn't even allow the opportunity for anyone to forget). That seems like a very Quinn-esque thing to do.

And as odd as I find the head wear, I'll admit it does seem to fit her rather well. My eyes slide down, interested in the rest of her body—in regards to what she is wearing, of course.

Her shirt is untucked and not buttoned to it's full extent. Suspenders hang loosely down her legs from where they are attached to her pants as if she'd meant to wear them properly over her shoulders, but hadn't quite gotten that far in her state of dress to be able to do so. For it would require her to have finished buttoning the remaining buttons on her shirt and tuck it in and she didn't seem as if she was in much of a hurry to do either of those things.

She has a pair of boots in one hand and a belt tethered with random pouches and gun-filled holsters in the other. It seems a bit sloppy for an important business meeting, and I wouldn't think someone with as much professionalism as the captain would willingly partake in one dressed as such. She has obviously dropped by to put the finishing touches on what is to be her highly formal appearance for the occasion. Having come to this conclusion, it becomes easier and easier to resist the urge to jump up and piece everything about her back together.

Although, I can't quite shake the urge to tuck in her shirt tales. I get fidgety in my need to do so.

My train of thought is quickly brought to another track as the captain settles her mockery and makes to speak what I assume will be more orders—considering her patent love of doing so.

"Okay now, in all seriousness, we need to leave relatively soon. That means, all geared up and off this ship in less than seven minutes galactic time. Am I clear?"

Everyone nods in understanding of their captain. I brighten in the accuracy of my assumption.

I must say, being right about something is one of the best feelings in the galaxy. Predictability tends to be the key indicator of how accurate one's assumption turns out on a given subject matter. In the static representation of this particular group, I could easily lose myself in the entertainment value of it all. So, for the sake of entertainment, I predict the captain will give her next order to her second-in-command first.

"You," she points to Santana before sliding on her boots as if these kinds of things came as naturally to her as getting dressed, "run to the artillery hall on your way out and secure some weapons for Puck. Set up the ship's primary security units while you wait for us down in cargo bay."

Called it! Stars above, I am good at this. Let's see if I can keep this ball rolling, shall we? Okay, um...next command will go to...Brittany?

"You," the bold captain announces, stepping in the other blond's space for one last glance over her work, "take a little off the eyes real quick. It's lookin' a bit 'drag queen' if you know what I mean. It needs to look a little more natural so we don't give off an impression that we're trying too hard. Also, while we're gone, feel free to rummage through th storage bins full of my old clothes for Rachel so she doesn't have to continue wearing that same outfit. Let's add some variety to her wardrobe, shall we?"

Brittany solutes determinately before setting about her assigned orders. Score! Three for three. Why not make it four? Okay, her next order will definitely go to Noah. I'm almost too positive.

She kneels down to be at his level as he sits there being primmed for finishing touches. I smile widely to myself, almost accidentally splitting my face in two in excitement.

"You. Pretty..pretty Puck," she sighs out sarcastically, placing her empty hand to his shoulder that obviously commanded for him to stop whatever he was currently doing and make eye contact. She wouldn't continue speaking until he did; he's obviously not dense enough to keep her waiting, "I don't think I have to express the importance of staying in character, considering where you will find yourself if you don't, prove to be reminder enough of that fact. So, I will only say this: keep that pretty little mouth shut and keep to your place in the background. Now, I know you aren't too good at following directions, but if you can manage just those two tasks for me today, I would be forever grateful. And just know, if you fuck this up by getting killed today Puckerman, I swear, I will bring you back to life just so I can kill you myself. Do I make myself clear?"

He nods his head quickly in agreement; the ice from her words easily freezing him in place before her. My arms wrap around me in a sudden need to shield myself from the cold.

"That being said, let Britt finish you up, then meet us down in the cargo bay." She wraps the contraption that is her utility belt around her slim waist and starts to play with the multiple facets that hold it all together, but not without mentioning one final command before she's through, "And don't forget to grab your comm-link on the way out! It's up in the cockpit."

With her shirt lifted to her belly-button and eyes still trained on the many buckles and fastenings, she turns towards where I stand off to the other side. The last for everything, I'm afraid.

"And you," she only makes eye contact for less than a nanosecond as she continues to fiddle with her belt, "try not to give Brittany too hard of a time, yeah? And please stay out of trouble while I'm gone."

I feel as if I should drop my head in shame right now, because she had a point in saying that. I have been relatively non-compliant lately and that hasn't aided any in her mission. However, I must admit, the way her shirt is playing across the slight show of her abs, might be mildly distracting me from paying attention to anything short of that. It is no secret that Quinn Fabray has an amazing body and I refuse to feel ashamed for admiring it when it's offered so graciously for my viewing pleasures, just as I'm sure every other being in the galaxy would do if they were given the opportunity as well.

Although, they aren't offered to me for much longer before she gets everything fastened and let's her shirt tails fall back into place.

"Have fun today," she announces to Brittany, pecking a kiss to the top of her head.

My heart sinks a little.

"Comm-link," she reminds Noah before slapping him gently across the back of his head. But she doesn't have the time for his protests to the action.

Once again, she walks the row, down the line to me.

"Be good," she announces to me quickly and quietly, in the rush of the rapidly decreasing time.

And then...so caught up in the sequence of events, she pecks the sweetest of kisses to my lips and then briskly turns for the door.

It plays out quite similar to a 1950's t.v family breakfast kind of scene; where the husband, out of natural habit and in a rush to leave for work, says his goodbyes and kisses his wife in a show of well-trained displays of affection. The only thing missing here is the heart-felt "I love you," and by that point, you might as very well start referring to us as the new-age Cleaver family.

Oh, but I'm not sure my heart could handle all that right now; goodness knows, the kiss alone has so far, been enough to redden my cheeks without needing to add any further confusion to the mix. Aside from the fact that the gesture is extremely cute, the worst thing about receiving those types of kisses is the fact that they always leave you open to more...You never can fully wipe the taste of sweet adoration off your lips. Those kinds of kisses are the ones that haunt your senses for days; and in some cases, I've heard, even centuries.

It only takes two muscles for a quick kiss. And 17 more for the smile that follows. Which is nothing in comparison to the 43 muscles it takes just to frown—especially once you realize just how short a kiss it was now that it's over. I feel that if I continue at this pace, it will be as if I'd run a full triathlon. My legs, most certainly feel as if I have.

After years and years of listening to multiple acting coaches lecture me on the significance behind a simple kiss, its meaning only becomes clear to me now; as I touch my fingers to my lips, in search of the ghost of a kiss that should never have been.

Seconds later, Quinn's head pops back around the corner.

"I'm so sorry...I didn't mean to—that wasn't exactly what I meant to—" she sputters out nervously, cheeks baked with the same red heat that lights my own. Scrunching her face into the cutest contortion of confusion and embarrassment.

I still can't speak.

I wave her off instead as a sign that I get what she means to maybe rid us both of this mildly awkward situation we now find ourselves in. All while turning my head away to hide the massive blush that I can feel burning my cheeks with an indistinguishable fire.

But I send her on her way.

* * *

><p>It's sometime around midday. Quinn, Santana, and Noah have been gone for close to four hours now. Which really only means anything, because this implies they should be back relatively soon.<p>

The person evaluating me in the mirror holds the strongest look of determination, as if there were a point she was dead set on proving. Bottom lip tight. Brows down-turned in concentration. Hands working mercilessly through strands of hair in concentrated effort to recreate a style only known to them, as if _they_ had a mind of their own. And every few minutes or so, when the tip of the eyeliner incisor pulls at the length of her long eyelashes or those determined fingers scratch across her scalp to once again rearrange the hair that falls lifelessly from her head, constantly dissatisfied with the current array, I have to remind myself...that girl is me.

My eyes show no signs of preliminary dark circles, though I feel as if I haven't slept in days. I should see them there. I don't.

My skin is soft and smooth almost glistening with the shows of health, though I feel as if I haven't showered in months. It should be dirtier and scattered with lines. It isn't.

I'm not quite certain what has caused this determinate glow—other than the desperate need to make myself perfect—that claws the pit of my stomach. That girl staring back at me looks like she knows what she's thinking—why, goodness, with a look as determined as that, I'd be willing to believe she even knows what I'm thinking. Though I'm most certain I don't even know myself. Oddly enough, the only thing that's been on my mind all day is Quinn. And even more randomly than that are the passing thoughts of the comment she made about Brittany, who is eying me adoringly in that same mirror.

"You look beautiful, Rachel," Brittany says from behind me, also looking as if she too were in grave disbelief.

Looking back to the mirror, the face visibly contorts into a shape of disrelish. A look so ugly and distasteful, I shake my head quickly away, shocked at the thought I might produce such an expression. It's not there when I look back. Instead it's replaced with a quizzical look of reproach.

It wasn't too long ago, I was considered ordinary. Not too long ago I was ordinary enough to ignore. I've never considered myself overly stunning, but at the same time, there was always a girl around that was markedly much prettier than me. And it's funny, being beautiful doesn't quite feel like I've always thought it would. I always expected it to feel more satisfying than this. I thought I would get more out of looking at myself and finally seeing beauty. I'm still just the same old ordinary girl with my face all painted up.

It's been this way all day. From the moment the blond and I started rummaging through Quinn's old boxes full of clothing, all the way up to this very moment. And likely to continue for as long as I remain oblivious to the root cause of such doggedness. But is that even a possibility at this point?

As minutes pass of staring between the self-righteous brunette that is supposed to be me, and the evanescent blond that is more beautiful simply because she is always beautiful...I should think not.

"Attention all beautiful female passengers—and Berry," Santana's voice sounds boxy and patronizing as it bellows through the comm speakers above, "This is a notification that we have arrived back from our errand. There is a mandatory meeting in the comm room on deck two. All beautiful ladies—and Berry—report to the comm room in twenty minutes. I repeat: all beautiful ladies—and Berry—report to the comm room in twenty minutes. Thank you, that is all."

She clicks off the loud speaker and all returns to as it was before. I scoff internally at her insolence and ready myself to go...apparently to the comm room on deck two.

For century after century, it has always been, that women are the only group of people capable of unwavering hatred for their own kind. What's worse is that this hatred has absolutely nothing to do with any other person in the woman's life, be it a lover, a crush, an ex-lover, etc. It is an autonomous reaction, evoked most erratically by feelings that will only ever stay between a girl and her own insecurities. It is selfish. And it can be cruel, what a woman will do to another, just to soothe the rage of feelings if and when they present themselves. Every man is taught through the years from boyhood: "You NEVER come between a woman and her own insecurities." For doing so, is often compared to suicide.

And while this is true—well...sadly, _because_ it's true, there are not many times a woman can enter a room full of other women and feel as if she isn't the star of their newest grudge. A woman's face can never hide the look that is almost as autonomous as the initial reaction; the look that says, "I will gouge your eyes from their sockets so that you bleed the beauty right through that pretty little dress."

I guess that's what makes it so special on the rare occasion it doesn't happen this way. It's not the attention. It's not the selfish need to feed one's own abominable insecurities. It's not even the satisfaction of getting what you want. It's because every girl deserves to have that one moment where she enters a room and feels as if she is wanted; as if she is needed there, in that place, only because she's her. Often times, it will happen the moment she least expects it too. The moment she is least prepared. That moment that far exceeds her expectations—the reaction she has trained herself to become so accustomed to—that something as simple as that, could easily soothe her soul. A girl deserves to have that at least once in her life. Because it's the only argument her insecurities will always lose against.

This moment...is mine as I walk into the comm room as instructed.

"Wow, Berry! You look...beautiful," Santana says in amazement, "finally!"

But I'm not really focused on her. The clang of a pistol as it hits the ground immediately pulls my attention to the gruff captain who dropped it, eying me from the corner of the room.

Her eyes are two glass crystal balls, widened enough to see a future that is too much glazed by the glass to fully interpret. Those very eyes sail down the outer contours of my body much the same way that crystal balls don't. It's one of those instances which people deem that they can "feel" someone else's eyes on them. Something that seems preposterous in theory, but as soon as you're the target of such a glance, you can quite literally feel eyes lavishing even the most remote parts of your body. One's you'd never thought were lavishable when primping in front of the mirror.

The captain's eyes start at my neck, tracing the outline of bone and skin down over my collar bone until they reach the strap of my dress that sits lightly on my shoulder. It is only a two inch thick white ribbon-like material, but it stands out brightly against my darker skin. Her eyes linger for a moment, then become more intrigued by the outer hem of the halter neck-line that shapes to the outline of my breasts. It's fairly modest. I've worn worse. But her eyes widen even more, regardless of how modest it may be. She probes every inch of the A-line silhouette, unabashedly pleased with the form-fitting bodice. Lost in the navy blue satin that does nothing to hide the feminine curve of my body. She pauses at the small white belt that holds tightly to the gather at my waistline. She almost appears hesitant, as if she has so many hopes, fears, and expectations for what might be below that line.

She doesn't stop there. Her hesitation is only momentary.

She gasps quietly as she allows her eyes to follow from where the lower portion of the dress flares out, falling in wide navy folds around me, ending maybe two inches above my knees. But the slight fringe of the deep red petticoat peaking out from beneath makes the dress look a little longer than it actually is. I rather admired the clash between the navy blue of the dress against the deep red of the puffy petticoat beneath. It made me feel almost sinful at first. As if I were going too overboard by even considering wearing it. Or at least—with the way the captain can't seem to tear her eyes away, most definitely makes me feel sinful. Delightfully so...

I immediately think back to my momentary self-evaluation in the mirror. When beauty—to me—didn't feel quite like I'd expected it to. It didn't seem to live up to my expectations then, but now I'm beginning to see everything a little bit clearer. It's almost overwhelming how satisfying beauty can feel when it's recognized through the eyes of another person—another very beautiful person at that. It amazes me. This is exactly what I thought it would feel like. This light-hearted, glow of pure happiness within me—is the exact feeling of someone who feels beautiful. And I feel absolutely stunning in Quinn's eyes.

My lips are permanently hung in a bashful grin as the blond captain continues to take in as much of my body as she can to her heart's content.

Only when Santana coughs loudly in attempt to purposely break the spell, does Quinn shake her head free of me, picking up her fallen gun in a fumble of shaky hands—almost dropping it a second time due to the unsteadiness. She keeps her head down, refusing to look up at me again. Ignoring the trap that is set for her eyes alone. Though she can't fully hide the blush that has completely overwhelmed her entire face to the richest shade of scarlet—almost bright enough to match the bright red flare of my petticoat.

In the opposite corner of the room, Santana is openly smirking in the blond's direction. Her eyes holding the mischievous notion that she knows exactly what has just happened. That small glint within them, carrying the promise that this wouldn't be something her captain would easily live down. The brunette's eyes suddenly cut to mine, though her smirk grows even wider as she does so. And just as suddenly, I feel so sorry for what this means for Quinn.

Thankfully, this doesn't get drawn out too much longer before Brittany finally enters the room and draws all attention to her.

"Hi, I'm Brittany. Welcome to our ship," she says cheerily, extending her hand in invitation to Noah. We're all a bit confused by the action. It's one of those rare occurrences where we can't tell whether that was a sorry attempt to joke or if it was just one more example of Brittany's simplistic nature. It would be difficult for those of us who don't share the intricate weaving of her mind, to believe it could ever be the latter. Almost in the way we'd all like to believe that no one can be _that_ daft.

"Uh...Britt?"

But Brittany is the prime example of a rather unique exception.

"Quiet Sanny, I'm trying to make our new guest feel comfortable. We weren't really nice to Rachel when she first got here and I'm not gonna let it happen our new guest too!" She whispers, holding a hand to the side of her mouth as if it really could control the harsh vibration of her words.

"But B, it's me..." Noah proclaims calmly, from where he sits in a chair next to the communications table.

The blond girl squints her eyes curiously at him. Hearing that certain familiarity in his voice, but searching for the same recognition in his face.

"Me who? I thought Me had died four years ago in Sala Cabo. What kinda game are you gettin' at here missy?" Her brows knit downward in frustrated confusion.

"Britt Britt, it's Puckerman...in a dress," The Latina offers lightly, controlling her own frustration like I've never seen her do with anyone else before—and will probably never see her do with anyone else ever.

"San! Don't say those kinds of things in front of the lady, you might offend her!" The misinformed blond is quick to reprimand, waving her finger wildly at Santana as if she were a misbehaving pet in need of a physical representation of such negative reinforcement.

"Hey! Wait a minute—What's that supposed to mean?" Noah question's, finally recognizing the hint of an insult in the blond girl's words.

At the same time, Santana takes this opportunity to move closer to where Noah sits. With the same determination, she rips the wig from the boy's head to reveal a smiling Noah underneath. He waggles his fingers in Brittany's direction—the lightbulb inside her head finally clicking on at the display before her.

"Whoa, it's Puck! How did you do that!? Are you a wizard or something!?"

"No Brits...we had to give him a make-over 'cause the bad bitch is after him, remember?" It is still fascinating how well the Latina manages to keep her wits about her when it comes to the ditsy blond.

"Quick! I want a pony-no wait! A unicorn...and a duck named Psymon..." The blond says climbing to sit on Noah's lap.

"He's NOT a wizard!" Santana says callously. In any other situation, involving anyone else, this seems to be the ideal moment in which Santana Lopez would officially snap. But she won't with Brittany. Instead, she rubs at the tension building at the bridge between her eyes.

"But make sure the duck's name is REALLY Psymon spelled with a P-S-Y—the 'P' is silent. I learned that in academy one time. I've always wanted a duck named Psymon! And he should have a dress that matches Rachel's. Because that dress makes her look sooooo beautiful. Doesn't it make her look so beautiful, Quinn?"

And then I remember that I'd forgotten about Quinn. It seems as if we all had. And once again, all eyes dart back to her. Quinn lowers her head in attempt to hide the same blush from before over in her little corner of the room. She's pretending to clean her gun...which would be more convincing if she had a rag and the cleaning supplies to do so.

She's flustered.

It's extremely adorable. My heart flutters franticly in my chest.

But in her impatience, Santana doesn't allow the captain to answer Brittany's question...and I really wish she would have. I was curious to hear what Quinn had to say—to see if she had words for the devilish things happening behind her eyes.

"Yea, she does, Britt—Hey, speaking of...why are you all dressed up so pretty today anyways, Berry?" The Latina asks curiously—though in the fakest form of curiosity one could point out from even the farthest reaches of space. With that upward inflection in her voice that implies she already knows the answer, but wants a verbal confirmation she can actually get by physically poking and prodding about instead.

But I am on an odd sort of high. And could care less if the angry Latina shot me dead in her fit of rage right here and now. This is the best I've felt in years, and I don't think anything can ruin it as it drives my emotions inside me.

"Simple. The captain and her crew will be escorting me through the markets today to shop for clothes of my own."

Quinn, Santana, and Puck all simultaneously groan in disappointment at the word 'shop.' Which catches me slightly off guard that they would all do so.

"—listen now, no groaning! If I am to be a member of this crew, then I expect to have the proper amenities aboard this ship. And I have yet to receive them."

Brittany, however, only perks up even more than her usual bubbly self at the idea.

"OhMyGod, yes! I LOVE shopping, Rachel! We can buy a dress for Psymo-(*GASP*) No! We could BUY Psymon! Oh, it'll be sooo much fun! Let's go!" She calls out happily, rushing to my side, already pulling at my hand to leave.

"Whoa—wait a minute!" Quinn finally finds those words she has so obviously been looking for since I first entered the room, "I don't know about all that now Rach...I mean, there were some...things...that happened back on Perdu...Things that—" apparently there is still some cause for struggle here.

I don't have the time to listen to her incoherent babblings about the "things" she thinks I don't know. If I wanted some form of horrid fake sympathetic discretion, I'd be better off finding it in a room full of typical women—like the one's I described earlier. I don't need it from her. And certainly won't take it. I pull at the flowing bottom of my dress and flip my hair—my attempt to prepare myself to leave...with or without the captain and her crew. Though I'm sure yesterday's events might prevent me from being too lonely in this venture.

She notices my preparatory actions and tries once more at coherency.

"Look, I just don't feel comfortable parading you about the galaxy's largest central black market hub...especially looking like that!"

It sounds more like an insult than a compliment. A very confusing thing to comprehend after having watched the maker of such a comment stare at me lustfully for half an hour of useless conversation! I certainly take it as one.

She seems to understand that fact, given my shocked and angry expression. And of course, much like any hypocrite caught in her current situation, she immediately begins back-pedaling, as if this will make things any better than they've already unraveled to be.

"No! Wait! I didn't mean for it to sound like that—you really do look absolutely beautiful—It's just...you don't belong out there in that world..."

And, as is also true with every hypocrite that subsequently finds themselves in her current situation...it only makes things worse.

"How..dare you...This is not the early 2100's, Quinn Fabray! I will not allow you to treat me like I'm just some modern-day...ship-wife!" I scream out angrily, with an over-eager stomp of my foot for emphasis.

And that's all it really takes to get the blond captain fired up and readily involved in an argument. But I've always known she can't stand to be the subject of a raised voice. It's quite obvious it was the right button to push in order to get her to lash out. Because lashing out seems to be the only time anybody can get through to her and her uniquely stubborn temperament.

"Do you see this patch?" She says it with a fire in her eyes. Most expectedly so that Quinn Fabray would throw her rank and status in everybody's face at the one time she knows she doesn't have any control.

"Yes," I reply plainly. Ready to play out enough of what she believes to be a successful attempt to regain control. Though, only for her benefit. Just because I know she needs that, at the very least.

But what she doesn't understand—at least not now, anyways—is that I'm just as determined to go, as she is for me to stay. The difference is...I have better patience and can wait it out until I get what I want...and she cannot. Another fun trivia fact about the mysterious blond that I find interesting.

"This patch is the representation of my authority. Look here, two chevrons and three stars…do you know what that means?"

And before I can answer her question, which was directed to me, Brittany quickly chirps out an answer.

"That you have really bad fashion sense?"

I chuckle quietly to myself. That was a pretty good response. She doesn't find Brittany's response as amusing as I do though. Her face reddens more than it did in shy embarrassment.

"No! They show my rank as captain! And you will respect my authority."

"Well, Miss 'Authority,' Brittany and I are spending the day shopping. Feel free to join us when you're done playing captain," I lock elbows with Brittany and swivel us both towards the door. I stop, without looking back, and call out, "Noah? Are you coming along?"

He jumps up instantly, "Yes ma'am! Just let me run and get my bag," and runs off to another room, leaving nothing but Quinn and Santana behind.

We wait there at the door for Noah and as we do, I can hear the captain and her second in command talking. Talking about me. I should have learned my lesson the first time I decided to eavesdrop, but the fact that the topic is once again about me, I can't help but listen in intently.

"What just happened?" Quinn's voice says confusedly from behind us.

"I think we just got conned into shopping against our will by the two most non-threatening creatures alive," Sanatana's voice answers almost immediately. The way they sound, I can almost picture them both in my mind, standing there, faces contorted in disarray, minds working endlessly to process the way things seem to be turning out. But mostly, stunned.

"Yea, well I'm the captain! We play by my rules!" I roll my eyes. You'd think she'd give that game up by now...

Santana stops her before she can go any further. Putting the perfect voice to my inner feelings and thoughts.

"Don't you get it Fabray?" Her voice sounds annoyed. Almost as annoyed as I feel now after having heard Quinn reference her title for the billionth time since she's known me. Then I realize this is Santana speaking...in what seems to be favor of...me. I listen in even closer, "When you wake up one day and find yourself in the arms of a woman...you ain't captain of shit."

The next thing I know, Santana is coming up behind me and linking pinkies with Brittany's free hand. Leaving, captain Quinn Fabray behind to nothing but her so treasured title.

And at this moment, I'm ashamed to say...I'm actually proud of Santana Lopez. I know that later I will remember that this is just a symbol of everyone being equally tired of Quinn Fabray's status as much as I am, and that none of this is really about me at all...but for once, in the moment...I'm going to let myself feel as if I was the most wanted girl in the room. As if this time, it's not about how pretty and popular you are that determines whether you will be accepted into a group. That these people like me for the simple fact that I am just...me.

Quinn chases us down the hall as we all four, make to exit the ship. She pulls Santana to a stop, by the arm, which in turn, causes Brittany to jerk backwards into their locked pinkies. Which in turn-turn, causes me to fall alongside the two as well because of Brittany's refusal to unlink our arms.

And Quinn is still wearing the look we are all eager to leave behind. The look of a self-righteous captain, held prisoner to her own name. We make to leave, but she holds firm to Santana's arm—once again—preventing us all from doing so.

"You didn't let me finish!" She calls out loudly...with only a sliver of desperation present that I don't think was even significant enough for anyone else to have even noticed. She realizes we are all forced to stay and listen until she releases Santana, and continues, "As I was saying, Lopez, we play by my rules and I say..."

She looks to me. Really looks into my eyes—into my soul—in the way that only Quinn Fabray really can.

"I guess we're going shopping."

And nothing else needs to be said. Just because I know...she needs that...

* * *

><p>It's undeniably true. Quinn is arrogant. She is selfish and inconsiderate. She is wildly unpredictable; characteristically flawed; and incontrovertibly in dire need of proper affection. She's stubborn about the most inconvenient of matters, and unwavering in her loyalty to titles. She is rude, careless, and incredibly too cunning for anyone's own good (including her own). She's ruthless—when she needs. She's intentionally hurtful—when she wants. She lies. She steals. She cheats to stay ahead. And holds no hard feelings all the same.<p>

But there's one thing Quinn Fabray does know how to do, and she does it exceptionally well. She knows just how to buy away any outside opinions of her altogether. So that we all see her just as she wishes us to. So that we all stick around. I'd fancy a guess, that's why her crew has remained so loyal. Barbara knows, it's not because of her "winning" personality. Well—at least not the personality she shows anyways.

There will always be something about her real personality—the one she tries so hard to hide from the universe. The one you can only see if you look really hard, because she only lets it shine through in that one random moment when she thinks you wouldn't notice it starting to leak through. Something beautiful, I guess.

The same something that just spent so many solar keeps on clothing and shoes and various unneeded accessories just to re-win the affection of the four people she realized she'd upset by being the way she is. Even though she doesn't realize what's most important about that fact is we aren't upset by who she is as much as who she tries so hard to be. We'd much prefer who she really is. It would be a relief in comparison.

I rifle through one bag, in particular, filled with clothes from a store called "Crash Project." The style reminded me of the stores I loved back home, and so I'd spent the most time and money there, glad to see such fashion sense still existed out here in the unknown and unchartered worlds of thievery.

I carefully run my fingers through the rich colors and assortment of fabrics of what I've naturally accepted to be a representation of my own unique style.

And then I look up at her.

We've come to rest at this little restaurant in the market after hours of constantly being on our feet. Shopping bags of all shapes and sizes litter everyone's feet beneath the big dark-wood table. A small band off to the far corner, plays a light tune that is barely perceptible among the loud echo that mixes between the dining floor and the bar. A scene that, given my experiences of yesterday's events, should have me a bundle of nerves.

But, oddly enough, I am not. At least, not when I'm looking at her...the way I am now. In this moment when she doesn't realize I am watching her most. Because she is always the most beautiful in these moments. When she isn't trying. When she doesn't know I see her when she's not trying.

She's fixated on a waiter chit-chatting to some fellow employee off to the back of the room. She's thirsty. I know because she's said so exactly thirty-seven times in the past hour alone. And only when Santana chimed in with the same complaint did we find ourselves where we currently are now. Her concentrated display is just her way of relaying that fact to the waiter—of whom hasn't had the pleasure of hearing her say so thirty-seven times.

While I find this technique silly and rather childish, staring at the side-profile of the captain's determined stare, I can't deny the fact that this most always works for her. She doesn't even fully burn a hole straight through his head before he rushes to our table; a bumbling mess of apologies and sudden eagerness to please.

As she orders, still unaware of my admiration, I recognize exactly what that something is that keeps us all enamored with Quinn Fabray. A something that can be as equally bad for her as it is good. Something, that because I've seen her use in such a negative way, I never truly recognized the potential it undoubtedly holds.

She is always trying.

No matter what, she will always try—because secretly, deep down somewhere in the depths of her cold heart, she cares...she cares a lot.

"Alright everybody, seeing as today has been highly productive as well as successful, let's all go around the table and each make a toast," Quinn suddenly suggests.

It is only then, I realize the numerous shot glasses being lined up before me. The same goes for everyone else as well.

"Ah man! Come on Q! Can't we just drink for once without having to go through all this bullshit!?" Santana complains from behind the waiter, who is filling each glass sitting in front of her.

"No Lopez. You know the rules...a drink without a toast, on a day like today, is the worst luck a non-repentant criminal could ask for..." Quinn replies. Santana doesn't seem all too convinced, eying the liquid hungrily as it flows into her multiple little cups, "And seeing as how you seem to be the most enthusiastic about it, why don't you start us off?"

The Latina immediately shoots the blond a look that could splinter wood. Quinn, however, remains resolute in her previous command; challenging that look with fire and gasoline. Threating—no purposely attempting to fuel it further. I'm sure Santana knows better than to push any more than she already has.

She holds her first shot glass up towards the center of the table.

"I hate you all, and wish you were dead."

She throws the shot back, makes a quick face of disgust, slams the empty glass down, and glares angrily from her place behind the table. I suppose that's not exactly pushing...

"Oh! Q! Let me try!" Brittany calls out from beside a pouting Santana.

"Okay B, have at it."

Brittany clears her throat before offering her glass out to the center of the table. There is a long moment of silence and it almost seems as if she isn't going to speak at all. And then she does.

"To toast! Light with butter and cinnamon!"

Quinn, Noah, and I—while equally confused—all three raise our first shot and call out, "to toast!" before throwing it back. No offense to the sweet little blond, but after a toast like that, that first shot was rightfully needed.

The putrid flavor of the liquid, that caused such a look to scour Santana's face earlier, creates an explosion as it lights a path within me, down to the very depths of my stomach.

"Here's to looking like movie stars, partying like rock stars, and fucking like porn stars!" Noah says merrily, downing another shot.

"Your turn, Rach," Quinn says to me. Looking at me in the most endearing way.

"Okay...um—Here's to Quinn! Who courteously purchased all of these wonderful goodies and—"

"Here's to the bore—the only one who can monopolize and monotonize a conversation at the same time! Come on Q! If I have to be a part of this, then you gotta tell the nibs not to fuck it up with all that sentimental crap!" Santana interjects rudely.

I pout dejectedly.

"Cool it San!" The blond calls hotly in the feisty Latina's direction. She then turns back to me, with such a calm and nurturing expression, you would have never guessed she had ever been angry a day in her life before, "I think what my highly disrespectful cohort was trying to say is, maybe you should try again and this time, try to have fun with it. Toasts are meant to be blatant and witty and sometimes even silly. For example: 'Here's to the people we fuck. Here's to the people who fuck us. If the people we fuck are fucking with us. Fuck them all and here's to us!' Now you try."

"Here's to the pretty girls that went to our heads. Here's to the witty girls that went to our beds. Here's to them, and here's to you," everyone seemed to enjoy that one better. We all take a drink.

"Not too bad, jewbabe!" Noah calls out hazily.

"Why thank you, Noah. I knew learning that entire script wasn't just for nothing! Even if I didn't get a part in that particular show, at least I got to use that somewhere where it will be appreciated. Courtesy of Les Mis of course."

"Here's to you and here's to me. Best of friends we'll always be. But if you should ever cross me..." Santana coos in a mockingly sweet voice. She holds the pause longer than expected, reeling us in to her words like the catch of the day. Her voice drops significantly as she speaks once again, "then fuck you and here's to me!"

Again, she is the only one to take a shot in honor of her own toast. That doesn't seem to phase her at all. If anything, it seems as if she'd wanted it that way.

Of course, this also starts round (insert whatever round they are currently on at this point) between she and Quinn. I've honestly lost count of how many times this happens. I'm honestly finding it harder and harder to care.

What intrigues me more is the constant talk of being "futzed" over—I do wish they would use that word more modestly. It's not like I'm a prude or anything. I don't mind it being said and will occasionally opt to use the real word myself. I just feel that if it is to be deemed a "sentence enhancer" then that implies that it is only used occasionally. At a time when no other word can accurately fill it's place. I'm all for fancifying sentences, but overusing any one word doesn't show much for your intellectual capabilities.

But I digress.

Their banter of being "futzed" over and "futzing" people over strikes a tiny nerve in me—aside from it's overuse. Correct me if I'm wrong, but something seems off about declaring multiple toasts that openly write off all the people who have screwed you over, when those that have screwed you the most are the ones you are honoring. Given, Santana was more honest in her message, so perhaps this has less to do with her and more to do with Quinn. More specifically, my own personal quarrels with said blond.

How can she sit there, acting so carefree and light, joking around with toasts that are meant to bond us all together as a group? How can she be a captain and say such things that would effectively encourage anyone who needed a little nudge of self-motivation? More importantly, why does she make it sound as if she's never "futzed" someone over either intentionally or unintentionally, herself?

Then I might be further inclined to ask...did she forget about me?

After all, I might be the one person at this table she is screwing over the most. She continued to pursue me after I openly denied her advances. She ripped me away from my home and everything I own. She waited to get me drunk before she told me that my fathers may possibly be dead and then did absolutely nothing to try and soothe the pain she'd caused by doing so. We've still yet to talk about the morning after that, and it sickens me to no end to think that she'd use me for one night of selfish pleasure and then just think I'd not remember anything about it the next day because I was so out of it.

Well boo hoo on you, Quinn Fabray. Because I do remember. I mean, I may not remember the night or what happened between us past a certain point towards the end of it, but I certainly remember waking up alone, half-naked, in a bed that I'd never been assigned to with a headache that could kill. A girl never forgets that moment, even if she wakes up with even the worst case of the zings. And it certainly doesn't leave much room to the imagination of what that means. And besides, it's the fact that we've still yet to talk about it that upsets me the most. That's the part that counts as the biggest screw-over in that certain situation.

And to top it all off, she found out about the people who are out to get me and still hasn't found the decency to even tell me about it! To tell me that I'm not the person I've spent my entire life believing myself to be. To warn me of impending doom. The same impending doom that could have very well been the one that took both my fathers. Of everything you could do to screw someone over, this seems like the mother-load of doing so.

The only beings who would keep such a secret from someone are parents that don't want to upset their children and those with bad motives, who wish to gain the upper hand and intentionally harm an individual by doing so. I am not a child—or so, I am not a child of Quinn's. This doesn't mean anything good for me. And the fact that she's so intent on remaining locked-up about it doesn't do any justice for her cause.

It's an errand of mercy I did overhear the entire conversation so that I am aware of my fate as equally as she is or else I'm not sure what I'd do. I suppose my life would be in the (criminal) hands of Captain Quinn Fabray at that point. It's reasonable to assume I'd die...in a manner that would appear to me as quick, painful, and completely unexpected...and without any recognition of having done so.

An involuntary shiver wracks my spine at the thought.

But I am not in this rather dreary situation. I did overhear her conversation with Kurt and I do know relatively every little detail she has come to learn about who I really am. She doesn't hold anything over me—at least, not in regards to critical information. And because of that, she doesn't hold my life in her hands quite like she thinks she does!

My tummy buzzes with random tingles of courage and excitement. My head suddenly feels lighter than usual and free.

I take another of the shots laid out before me.

Yes! She doesn't have anything on me!

If anything, I'm the one in control here because I know something she doesn't know. I know about the thing she didn't want me to know, and she doesn't know that I do. So there you have it, Quinn Fabray! You can't outfox the fox.

And because I am nothing like the selfish pirate queen—because I wouldn't wish harm on even my worst-most enemy, I have no intention to keep this from her. There is absolutely no reason she shouldn't know about my eaves dropping. In fact, I've wanted to tell her since the moment I overheard her and Kurt talking through the door. I just haven't found the appropriate time to be able to casually slip it into conversation without sounding like I mean to throw it up in her face. Because that is not what this is about.

It wouldn't very well prove the point I was initially trying to make. And I feel it is important that it be made clear, abundantly so.

Now doesn't seem any better than those other times. So many thoughts swirling through my head, being thoroughly tossed around by the sea of alcohol. As much as I'm dying to say it, I won't. I try with all my might to hold myself back.

"I know what happened Quinn!" I call out suddenly. Granted, it gets the attention of everyone around me, including the blond at whom it was originally directed. At this point, with all eyes on me, waiting and ready to hear what I have to say, I can't stop myself now, and so I let the onslaught of words continue, "I'm not sure if you honestly believe I was too dimwitted to have eventually figured it out or if you actually thought you could avoid the situation enough to dissuade me from ever noticing something might have gone on...either way you have a lot of explaining to do!"

"Rachel, I don't—what are you talking about?"

"Don't you dare play stupid now. Not while I finally have the nerve to call you out! I'm not a girl who is easily sated Quinn Fabray! And I will go ahead and tell you right now, I am not stupid, and I am not naive enough to have missed the telltale signs that something was up!"

"But it's not what you think. I promise! I think you've got it all wrong—"

"Contrary to what you believe, Miss Fabray, I did notice how strangely I was treated that morning. You try to be calculating and in control with all your secret-keeping and trash-talking with your pathetic little pirate buddies behind my back, but little did you know, I've been aware of what's been going on the entire time!"

"There are no secrets here, Rach. No trash-talking behind your back—I swear! I meant to talk to you about it the minute I figured it out myself, but I didn't know how to bring it up. It's not something easy to talk about...I really did want to talk it over with you, it's just—"

"No Quinn...don't give me that. I know you better than that. You're not a coward. I want to know the real reason you decided to keep it from me! Do you like the power of it all? Showing the captive girl a good time to make her feel better about her predicament and then leaving her down by the wayside while you go chat it up with your little pirate friends...Do you feel powerful when you think you hold certain information over someone else's head!? Does it make you feel as if you're in control?"

I register her opening her mouth to speak again. I'd assume, to answer my onslaught of questions, but I am not finished asking. So I cut her off before she can speak again.

"No! You don't get to speak yet! You have all these cutsie little toasts and cheers about fucking people over, but you don't even realize how badly it feels to get fucked! I've never done anything to you, Quinn, so if you can answer anything, answer me this: why did I get fucked!?" I am standing now, unsure of when exactly I had risen from my seat in the first place. I cross my arms and tap my foot impatiently, finally ready for an answer—so relieved that I'd finally gotten the chance to get all of that out of my system.

She looks me deep in the eyes, with her hazel ones that penetrate deep into the most remote inner recesses of my soul and says:

"We never had sex."

Wait. What!?

"I re-watched the security footage from that night—because I needed to know for myself, you know? And I swear to you, absolutely nothing happened between us that night," she explains to console my look of confusion.

And then I stop and collect the details of the previous argument. Because this is NOT what I expected to hear.

"I can understand how that might make you feel that way...and I am very sorry I didn't come to talk it over sooner. Even though we were smashed out of our minds, I would never take advantage of you like that! I may be a pirate, but I would never take something away from you that wasn't given to me to take. You deserve to know that! You deserve to feel safe in that, and I can't express how sorry I am that I didn't tell you all of this sooner so that maybe we could have spared the heartache that not confronting it head on has caused," she continues...rather genuinely. Speaking slowly and cautiously as if talking someone off a ledge.

I realize, her response may not have been the one I wanted to hear, but she has such a calming way of speaking, it is almost as if she has soothed a part of me I hadn't realized needed it up to this point. I slowly lower myself back to my seat as I soak in the comfort her admission gives me. Maybe it's the fact that Quinn has so willingly admitted to having been at fault for anything at all. And that doesn't seem like something the captain does very often.

Seeing as her entire crew is gawking at her as if she'd grown a second head, I'd be inclined to believe that I might be the only being in all of existence that has gotten the mighty Quinn Fabray to admit she was wrong for anything...ever. Now that is something to be acknowledged.

"OhMyGod!" She calls out with the air of sudden recognition, "I totally get it now! How could I be so stupid!? Do forgive me for not realizing sooner..."

"What is it, Q?" Brittany is the first to ask, as inquisitive the little imp she is.

"Buh. Duh. Buh-duh-duh-Duh. Duh. Da-Duh DUH!" The captain sings in response.

Nobody seems to take the hint that appears so obvious to the blond. She tries once again, only this time she beats her hands across the table in a sloppy rhythm to further emphasize the tune. As if that were the key reason none of us were catching the reference.

"Buh. Duh. Buh-duh-duh-Duh. Duh. Da-Duh DUH!"

Santana and Noah both give her a questioning look. Brittany stares on in amazement at the other blond's ability to tap a rhythm and sing simultaneously. Said other blond continues beating the table in that very same tempo, waiting for anyone to catch on to her not-so-easy clues. Beings from the numerous tables around us get annoyed and one-by-one give us the stink eye from each corner of the hall. And I...sink in my chair, once again embarrassed to be associated with such barbarians.

But it gets worse.

Once she's realized none of us understand her reference, she stops the rhythm she's been keeping against the table and hangs her head in what I assume to be humiliation. I certainly would be humiliated after an outburst such as that.

And just when it seems as if she's finished and everyone turns back to their own conversations at their own tables...her voice roars out above it all, carrying the same rhythm her hands no longer carry:

"I met her in a club down in old Soho  
>Where you drink champagne<br>And it tastes just like cherry cola..."

I still haven't the faintest idea what she's singing.

Everything is eerily quiet again. Everyone's eyes are once again on her. By the end of the verse, she is standing. But she's not on the ground like a normal drunken person with no sense of conduced effort—but has managed to climb to a stand in her own chair.

With a pleading expression on her face and one hand drawn out, physically grasping for the next line, Quinn stands there gallantly. Unwavering in stature and determination for understanding—from anyone at this point.

"C-O-L-A, Cola!" Santana spells in the very same key as when the song started.

A big, bibulous smile spreads across the blonde's face as if it were meant to conquer itself, or a large portion of her face—or better yet, a large portion of her practiced façade. At least Santana finally caught the reference and helped the poor girl out, or else I'm sure she's dog-headed enough to embarrass herself further for sake of her own ego. Not that she hasn't embarrassed herself enough already.

She sings another verse to the song, in the same volume and prestige as before:

"She walked up to me  
>And she asked me to dance<br>I asked her her name  
>And in a dark brown voice<br>She said, 'Lola'..."

She stops again. The same way she did after the first verse.

Only this time, the entire hall doesn't even hesitate when they erupt in unison:

"L-O-L-A, Lola!" They spell, suddenly very into this spontaneous musical number the blond initiated, "Lo-Lo-Lo-Lo-Lolaaaaaaahhhh..."

You'd never believe it could happen if you weren't seeing it for yourself, but the entire hall breaks into a continuation of this little number. Much in the way they would to an old favored drinking hymn. I suppose in their case, this is an old favored drinking hymn—at least among those that make up this particular group.

Everyone gathers, unceremoniously, around the small band in the corner of the room. They perform the same song in an instrumental interlude that is suddenly louder than anything they had played before. Or so it seems. It's believable that they should. If they didn't, they could easily be drowned out by the boisterous roar of the singing sea of drunken pirates.

My entire group of pirates have joined in as well. Brittany's sitting on the edge of the stage with her eyes tightly shut, moving gracefully to the flow of music. Santana's caught up with pushing away all the drunken men and women that sway sloppily close to Brittany—and looks relatively happy to be doing so. And Quinn has been pulled to the stage; the fearless leader in this sottish sing-a-long. She sings with impenetrable pride every time the singer of the band presses the microphone to her lips. And as I watch them make a fool of themselves among the chaos and disorder, I realize what I'd just done. I actually claimed them. As if they were mine to claim in the first place. And I feel, well...I'm proud of that fact.

Who knows?

Maybe I truly am.

My cheeks tighten into a smile. A little show of my pride, meant just for them.

Though, I'm not so distracted as not to notice the large body that takes a seat in the now open chair beside me.

"Hey. Having a good time?" The male voice asks loudly to speak over the music, but not so loud that he comes off as too aggressive. It's quite the opposite, actually. His presence, though awkward, is the first to make me feel as comfortable as before I even started this grand adventure. And because I am so surprised at the calming affect this has on me, I allow the boy my time and attention.

"I am. I'm actually enjoying myself a lot! Thank you for asking." I notice that I can't stop myself from looking back to Quinn as I say this. Almost as if I'd meant to say it to her. As if I owed it to her.

She's climbing down from the small stage, laughing wildly as she does. In a brief moment, her laughing dies into a radiant smile and hazel-green eyes catch mine from across the room. In that moment I know that I meant those words. And that I meant them for her to hear. And for a second, even more brief than that moment, it feels as if she's heard them.

The deep rumbling voice of the boy beside me shakes me from the connection, "So, where are you from?"

"Far away from here," I chuckle, light in mood and heart. Easily susceptible to anyone interested in that kind of thing.

"I can tell," he chuckles in response. I suddenly recoil in defense, slightly panicked at the thought of being found out. Am I that obvious!? Do I really stick out like a soar thumb!?

"W-what makes you say that?" I try to play it off as coolly as possible, but the recollection of Quinn and Kurt's earlier conversation nags petulantly at my thoughts. I am a wanted woman. And for the first time since I'd found that out, I think I am sincerely frightened at what that means.

"Oh no! Don't worry! I've never been very good at flirting," he says reassuringly, recognizing the sudden shift in emotion. I take a deep breath to calm down once more, allowing myself to feel comforted by his presence. And with a courtesy very unlike that of the atypical pirate, he allows me my time to gather myself before he tries his second hand at speaking, "I just meant, that you're far prettier than any female pirate I've ever seen...as beautiful as you are, you couldn't have possibly have been born in a place as ugly as this."

My cheeks light up at his comment.

"But I would believe it if you told me you run this place. Which ship do you command? Are you here on business, or did you take some time off for pleasure?" He asks casually, quickly falling into conversation.

"Seriously?" I ask a bit incredulously.

"Yea. Why wouldn't I be?" he questions in return. His face contorts in his confusion, looking as if he were trying to answer his own question by analyzing me instead.

I'm just shocked that he actually believes me to be a captain of a pirate ship. And at the same time, I am deeply flattered by his most mistaken notion, being that he is the only being I've met thus far that truly believes I am capable of such a feat. Not that'd I'd even want to be. The pirate life is not one I'm prone to. But somehow, it's nice to finally be recognized as something more than just a pitiful, helpless little pet. And to think, I wasn't even trying to look like a fearless pirate captain, but was still mistaken as one? Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I'm an even better actress than I thought. Toot! Toot!

I open my mouth to respond, when a voice that is most certainly not mine, speaks for me instead.

"Who the hell are you, and why are you sitting at my table!?" The angry captain calls out from behind me. I know what that means. And strangely enough, I've rather enjoyed this newcomer's company. I pop up quickly from my seat and rush to her side to calm her nerve before she scares him away. Her arm tenses in my grasp as I clutch to it gently; a peaceful attempt to hold her back.

"Finn. Finn Hudson! But I don't see how it's any of your business. I just saw Rachel sitting here all alone, and thought I'd keep her company considering her real crew couldn't do any better!"

Wait a minute! I don't remember ever having told him my name...

My hands clutch tighter to Quinn's arm that is still flexing wildly beneath my fingertips. Only, this time I didn't do so to hold her back. In a move that is meant to go unnoticed, she slowly sidesteps until she is in front of me; upholding what has become her natural place as my human shield. As if she could sense my hesitance and fell into place before me accordingly like a cog fitted perfectly to another wheel in a well-oiled machine.

"Rachel _is_ my business," she adds firmly.

"She just looked lonely over here all by herself and I thought she could use some company."

"Right...and you're just the big hairy monkey to swoop in and do the job, aren'tcha?" His face drops in confusion, which seems to be a default setting for him by now, "Listen here buddy, if she wanted to date an ape, she'd time travel back to 21st century Earth like any normal girl with an intense desire for ugly! That place was crawling with them, and I guarantee each and every one would be better than you!"

"What are you trying to say here, captain?" Though the way it's asked is as equal parts confused as his face expressed before, he stands abruptly with a confidence to match the back-talking blond's. It happens so quick, that his knees shove into the table, sending a violent tremor among our empty glasses. He doesn't even look the least bit hindered by it. I, on the other hand, can't help but jump beneath my skin at the action.

It doesn't affect Quinn the same way. If she didn't move me even more behind the blockade of her body, you wouldn't even be able to tell that she had noticed it at all.

"Listen here now, I need you to understand something before I kill you," she says coolly. She had overestimated him, a different approach was needed, one with childlike simplicity. I feel her right hand shifting towards her thigh for her gun. Not this again.

"You're not gonna shoot me, Captain Fabray," Finn says, highly sure of himself for someone who's about to get shot by a soulless blood-thirsty pirate.

"Ha! Then you're as dumb as you are ugly!" She says mockingly.

This is apparently the last straw for Finn. He lunges in rage, only to be blocked by the table before him. This allows Quinn more than enough time to pull out her pistol and aim it at the boy. And she does so slowly and gracefully, to further mock the poor boy. I'm in no position to tell, but if I had to make a guess, judging by what I know of Quinn Fabray, I'd say she's probably smirking evilly at him as she prepares to fire.

But this doesn't hinder him either. Once he steps free of the table, he is steadfast in his determination to lunge.

A hand catches his shoulder in the nick of time.

"Not another move, Hudson!" The owner of the hand commands, "You look like you could use a timeout. Why don't you go cool off for a second."

It is said with less force, but still holds all the authority with which it commands. Authority that is enough to calm the raging Finn. He shrugs the hand from off his shoulder and storms away through the crowd of people, towards the closest exit.

And suddenly, Finn is the least of our worries.

"I apologize for his behavior. Please, Miss Fabray...why don't you lower the gun and take a seat," our newest threat continues as casually as she forced Finn to leave. Quinn, however, isn't as quick to comply.

But the newcomer doesn't seem too upset by the pirate's resistance. The lady pulls at the lapels of her jacket before making herself comfortable in the seat on the opposite side of us. She gives Quinn another second before pulling open one side of her jacket to reveal her own pistol. The captain tightens in my arms and I half expect to hear the sinister firing of weaponry at any minute.

But the guns never go off. Instead, the lady pulls her weapon from it's sleeve and sets it down on the table. Then she makes a show of backing off and crossing one leg over the other. The way an officer of the law would do when interrogating a suspect that is to stubborn to confess to the crime they most certainly committed. Her fingers interlace about her top-most knee and she once again allows Quinn the time to comprehend what this means. A most peculiar composure given the circumstances. Much too peculiar for your everyday criminal to act out.

"Go on now, Miss Fabray. I have some things to discuss with you and you're gonna want to sit down in order to hear it," the lady says once more. Not moving an inch from the position from before.

Surprisingly, Quinn does as she's asked. At least partially so. She doesn't fully let go of her gun. Rather, continues to hold tightly to the handle, facing it directly towards the newcomer as she places it on the table before her. I'm not one for unnecessary violence, but in this particular situation, it seems that any being powerful enough to cause Quinn to comply is probably not somebody worth knowing at all. And, for the moment, I can't say I don't blame the blond for upholding some form of aggression. I fear it might actually come in handy this time. I doubly fear my admittance of that fact.

"Funny seeing you around these parts, Beiste. What brings you to my little corner of the universe?" Quinn inquires with familiarity.

My mind flits back to our conversation earlier this morning about the "You know who" that is after Noah, as I try desperately to wrap my head around who exactly this woman might be.

The one titled "Beiste" hums despondently in response; in such a way, that when it ends, it causes the corner of her lip to curl into a minatory smirk.

"I've been sent here on business, and luckily enough for me, I found you on the first try."

This most definitely isn't the "you know who" that is after Noah. The way she was described before, it didn't seem as if she would be the type of being to take such matters into her own hands. She didn't seem like the type of being that would be sent to do anything for anyone that was brave enough to ask her. And the way they talked about it before, had she sent someone else to do her bidding and rid the world of Noah Puckerman, then it stands to reason that they would do just that...not sit and have a conversation with his captain like this was afternoon tea...

My next thought bounds to the secret between Quinn and Kurt. A conversation that was meant to have never graced my ears. Noah's not the only one with people after him. I tense at the thought. Could this be a member of the Heretics come to take me away from Quinn?

"Hmm...well, I must've done something very bad if they sent you all the way out here to deal with it...It's definitely flattering to an extent...yet, at the same time, highly speculative. I don't remember having done anything terrible enough to warrant such a visit...though, my memory is a little foggy at the moment. It must have been really good to have caught the attention of the Coalition," Quinn says as non-nonchalantly as she can manage. Though I can see right through her act. Her heart is beating so hard and fast in her chest, it's almost the only thing I hear ringing in my own ears. I'm actually surprised Beiste hasn't noticed and made a comment about it yet. It definitely sounds loud enough to reach her end of the table.

Then again, at the mention of the Coalition, my own heart-rate has increased incrementally as well. I could very well be hearing the sound of my own heart racing in company of such authority.

"You are quite the tyrant, Fabray..and nothing would please me more than to arrest you and lock you away forever myself.."the blond nods in understanding, willingly admitted to that fact, "Unfortunately, that's not why I am here."

Beiste has a way of stopping short of an explanation at the precise moment you need to here it most; letting the unknown of everything hang there in the air around us like a load of dirty laundry. It's like she knows the anticipation is unbearable and finds some sick pleasure in drawing it out as long as she possibly can. Dangling it before us in hopes that one of us will jump for it. Her way of letting us know it is our turn and the repercussions of whatever move we counter will all end in an equal amount of misfortune.

I'm so tired of games. Yet, it seems like the only thing criminals want to ever do. Perhaps I'm just tired of criminals.

Quinn takes the bait, knowing as well as I do, there isn't any option otherwise.

"Then again I ask, why...are you here?"

"Well, I won't lie Quinn...I like money...and I hate you. Fortunately for me, I have the opportunity to satiate my need for both," Beiste's face suddenly drops from a self-satisfied smirk to a look of pure revolt, "You have something I want."

"Funny, I wasn't aware it was legal for commanding officers of the Coalition to act in trade with a pirate," Quinn retorts quickly.

"In this case, I think we can make an exception. Especially since that which I seek is property of the Coalition...property that was stolen months ago that has a pretty unforgiving penalty if not returned immediately," the woman crows wickedly. Quick to re-invite the devious smirk in place of disgust.

I notice Quinn has been glancing off to the side every once in awhile during our conversation with Beiste. Though it is so hurried, and Beiste seems so caught up in the glory of revealing such wretched news, I believe I might be the only one to notice the gesture. I don't think anything of it until the fourth or fifth time the blond glances off to the crowd to our right. And at that point I am curious as to what has the blond so distracted from a situation that seems rather important—dangerous even. Much too dangerous to avert a glance, even if for but a second.

My head drops with the weight of hesitant discretion, in poor attempt to shield my eyes and look off into the area of crowd that has so many times caught Quinn's attention. But I find nothing in the sea of drunken thieves and criminals. Aside fro drunken thieves and criminals.

After moments of analyzing, I remember where I am and scold myself for having stared so long.

How could I be so dumb? What if she'd caught me staring? What would she think? What would she do?

My eyes, snap back to where Beiste still sits before us at the table. The first thing I notice is that the vile Coalition Officer doesn't seem to have noticed a thing. She is still caught up in her little game of indirectness, barely taking any notice that Quinn and I are still even here listening at all.

The second thing I notice, is that Finn has returned from his "time-out," and is standing with the resolute determination of a soldier directly behind the woman. And he _has_ noticed me. In fact, his gaze is like a hefty coat of lead and causes a sharp pang of weakness throughout my entire body.

This feeling is nothing in comparison to what Beiste says next.

"The girl, Quinn..." A lump forms in my throat, "Go ahead and hand her over, and I promise not to kill you..."

That same lump plummets downwards into my stomach as the woman's gaze becomes focused on me. The object of her desire—and not at all in the way that little girls spend their whole lives dreaming of. I don't know how or why, but my head lightens immeasurably at the feeling in the pit of my stomach. So much so, I feel I could faint at any given moment. I stumble forward, closer to Quinn's chair and clutch hastily at her shoulder for support to keep me from collapsing to the dirty waiting floor.

"What!? Why!? What could you possibly want with Rachel!?" She calls out quickly. I'd half-expect yet another sarcastic comment from the blond and instead am quite dismayed at the revelation that in this moment, she does not have one. A Quinn Fabray without sarcasm is a Quinn Fabray without confidence. Confidence that she is in control of a certain situation or that she feels as if she has control in a given conversation. A Quinn Fabray without control is as alarming as it is rare in occurrence.

I feel her hand settle on top of mine, that is now squeezing even more tightly at her shoulder. Whether it is to stop the pain that my tight grip is most likely causing or whether it is meant as an act of consolation and recognition that this is a time in which I need it most, still remains unclear. The only thing I am absolutely sure of is the location of her hand and the warmth that it brings as it rests gently atop my own. I try to focus on that, more than what the implications behind such a gesture might mean. Which is difficult for me. Even now in the throws of peril, I still find time to pick a part every little thing in order to fully understand the meaning. A trait of mine that has never served a useful purpose. That's no different now.

Though, it becomes easier to ignore the longer she keeps her hand where it is. And it doesn't feel as if she plans on moving it anytime soon. Her quaint little way of saying, 'even though we're all in a tiff right now, please don't panic. I may not have everything under control, but I am still here and I plan to be out of control with you.'

And as much as one would believe this wouldn't work at all, one would be highly mistaken in this instance. It could be the simplicity of it all...or the self-sacrifice it suggests. But I'm certain that if Quinn's hand wasn't holding onto me like it is now, I would cave from the outside in, like a house of cards blown over from even the subtlest hint of wind. And regardless of why she actually does so, I choose to believe it is because she cares. And she desperately wishes to bring about any comfort she can to a girl in my current predicament.

"It's not me, so much as the entire Coalition that seeks her safe return. You see, Quinn, that girl is extremely special to our promise of intergalactic peace among our people. Losing her could mean very dark things for us—and could very much start a war of universal proportions, that would bring about such violent and vast destruction...amounts you couldn't even dream of...something we, as politicians, promised our people they would never see. And we intend to keep our promises, Quinn," Beiste answers darkly, face hung as serious as her given intent. The intent to leave the wretches of the blacklisted lands and return back to her home at the capitol...and to do so with me by her side.

"That doesn't do much to answer my question, Beiste!" Quinn grinds out through clenched teeth, trying not to let her own worries leak through into the tone of her voice as she speaks, but I hear them there beneath the subtext of her words, "What war? What intergalactic peace? What does Rachel have to do with any of this!?"

"I'm afraid that is all you need to know at this point, Captain Fabray. You have taken something that is very important government property and Sylvester sent me, personally, to assure that it is safely returned. And as for the Heretic scum that stole it in the first place...well, let's just say she left it up to me to decide what to do with you...might I remind you how long I've been waiting to be given such an opportunity, Quinn? I can assure you it will be long and painful should you choose not to comply," her words are aphotic and menacing, though her posture remains friendly and relaxed as she makes her promises. Which causes all the more confusion in the face of grave danger.

At this moment, I don't know how and why I am so important to my government. But there is a real chance that I am about to find out the answers soon enough. Beiste is too confident that she has already won. It's too hard to refute that as a truth.

Quinn starts out calmly as she speaks:

"Let me just say," then jumps from her seat in one single show of her pent up rage as she continues, "You're one messed up fuck," the blond holds off her rage long enough to turn to me and say ever so softly, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I know you disapprove of swearing, so I'll rephrase that..." then, turning back to Beiste, reverts to her previous tone and continues once again, "You are a messed up F-star-star-CUNT! And I will be damned to hell before I let you take Rachel Berry with you anywhere! So, screw you and your pathetic little body-guard. We're done here."

She grabs my hand, in a way much lighter than her current mood, turning us both in the direction of the exit.

"I don't think you're going anywhere."

That's when I hear the click of a gun being readied. But I don't have to stop myself from cotinuing onward. Quinn hears it as well the moment it happens and stops enough for the both of us to freeze in horror at such a desolate sound. Her head falls in defeat beside me, so that her short blond hair covers the entirety of her face.

That is...until our one hope at rescue emerges from the crowd, piss drunk and full of cheer.

"That song was so awesome! I forgot how awesome that song actually was! Did you see me up there, Q?" Santana slurs as she hangs off the shoulder of an equally loopy Brittany. She stops when she realizes we have company. And it's not the favorable kind.

Just like that, soberness washes over the both of them like a bucket of ice cold water.

"Whoa! He's got a fucking gun! Shit." She points out idly, fidgeting for her gun that seems quite content to stay where it's at—safe, sound, and unprepared for conflict—inside the holster low on her hip.

"Who are these lovely creatons, Quinn? I wasn't aware we were having company," Beiste airs out sarcastically from somewhere behind us. Not forgetting to add on towards Santana, who has finally freed her weapon from it's confines and is now holding it sloppily at the speaker, "And I am a woman, you drunken buffoon!"

Quinn turns to answer her question. Her confidence restored regardless of the appearance of her drunken crew.

"These are my henchmen. And while they are late," she snaps an agitated look at the Latina before continuing, "and agreeably, quite stupid, it is also true that this little dispute has become three against two...I believe we have you outnumbered, Beiste..."

As confident as she may be, there is still a slight slur to her speech that doesn't go unnoticed by either myself or Beiste. And had Quinn stopped her gloating in order to recognize this fact, there may have been the slightest chance at escape. Sadly, this confidence is alcohol-induced and we will not be afforded such luxuries at the hands of inebriation.

"...We both know I'm the fastest shot in the universe. You haven't caught me so far, and you won't start today! So don't go on acting as if I'm not gonna just walk right out of here scott free like I do every single time..."

And had Quinn really paid attention for the slightest second, she would have thought to look back behind her. Then she would have seen the two men creeping suspiciously towards Brittany and Santana.

One-by-one those men knock our rescuers out with the butt of thier guns—which was probably not difficult to do, considering their drunken state. I tug at Quinn's sleeve anxiously. Now is no time to feed her ego.

"Stop it Rachel! Not now, I'm trying to make a point here. We'll leave in a second, just let me finish," she stops. But only to tell me this. Still exhaustably unaware of what is going on behind her back. I give up trying to warn her. What's been done is done, now we all just have to wait for Quinn to catch up to that fact.

As she rants on and on about her status—of which I am irrefutably sick of by now—Beiste once again allows her the time to do so. Despite the earlier rush to end this confrontation and go about her mission. The woman kicks back in her seat, hands behind her head and feet perched up on the table with that same meaningful smile as before wide enough it might as well cover her entire face. And whether she lacks the time or not is irrelevant to her at this point. Because she is the type of being that is highly amused in these types of situations. When someone else is about to realize that they have lost and she has won. I suppose, much in the way Quinn gets some sick pleasure out of precisely the same thing. And right now, Beiste is content to wait as long as it takes for Quinn.

Embarrassingly enough, the blond only indulges in a few more minutes of her rant before bringing us all to that very moment.

"Are you done?" Beiste asks through her crooked smile once she's sure Quinn's paused long enough that it seems likely she won't continue.

"Yes," the blond responds. With a hick-up, nonetheless, to top it all off.

"Well, despite that marvelous speech I still have a job to do and I'm afraid I still have to follow through with it."

"Then, I'm afraid you've chosen to do this the hard way...Lopez, Peirce—take 'em down..."

But nothing happens.

They're currently knocked out cold on the ground behind her, with two of Beiste's crew holding us both at gunpoint instead—unbeknownst to her. After a long enough pause of disobeyed orders, Quinn finally turns sharply as if to scold them once again for being useless.

That is when she catches up with the rest of us.

Her eyes roam breifly over the scene before her. Jumping from Santana's lifeless body, to Brittany's, then to me with my arms raised in surrender for the two goons with the guns.

She turns back to Beiste slowly, trying to hide the scene that has taken place behind her. Still not sharp enough to recognize that it had been strategically planned that way by the woman to whom she speaks. With a pointed finger and a clear of her throat, she says, "It appears my henchmen...forgot to hench..."

She doesn't get to say anything more. As if on cue, one of the henchmen lashes the butt of his gun across the back of her head.

I call out for her in terror as her body hits the floor with a loud thump. Tears fill up my eye-sight at her blurrying lifeless form on the floor.

But that is the last thing I see before the sharp pain to the back of my head sends my own world to black.

* * *

><p>This is how we find ourselves in our current situation...<p>

Quinn and I are tied up sitting side by side in front of a fountain at the centermost of the universe's most renown blacklisted market.

An to think, it all started with eating utensils...

The sentiment doesn't seem as humorous now as I wince at the pain that spreads miserably about my head.

One...two...three...

I lift my arms incrementally higher behind my back in time with my counting. Though...that's as far as they actually go.

One...two...three...

The plan was to initiate a dislocation as soon as I got to three, as is a standard in the process of counting down from three.

One...two...three...

Obviously I'm struggling with this a little. Outwardly, I'll keep telling myself that I lack the required amount of room it would take for me to swing my arm in just the right way to pop it safely out of joint. Between by body and the stone barrier of the waterfall that serves as the supposed prop for my sitting position.

One...two...three...

But realistically I am very aware of the truth. I don't want to snap my arms out of joint. I've never had to—I've never had the proper preparation in order to be able to in a way that won't leave me severely damaged. And I really don't want to feel the pain. Especially if it's pain that's self-inflicted. Something about it just doesn't sit well with me. So many other people have caused me enough grief these past few months. Seeing as the most control I have is over myself, why would I want to utilize what tiny amount of control is afforded to me in order to add to the pain. It seems a shameful waste.

I should try something else. There's just got to be another way. Maybe Quinn will have some ideas and we can brainstorm this thing together.

I turn to the blond beside me for further insight, expecting to see her in the same position as myself. Tied up and fighting with fierce determination against the hopelessness of it all. Instead, I am met with the putrid grin of a big hairy being—most likely of Mongul decent—who has an unnatural amount of hair and deep blue colored skin. I gasp at the intrusion. Though, not because he is a Mongul. But because of the abrupt unexpectedness of his appearance. He smiles a toothless grin that not even the vast amounts of thick facial hair can contain.

"'Ello Love, where do you think YOU'RE going?" He says with a chuckle, his face floating forward with every word.

I turn away automatically as he nears closer and closer into my personal space—not particularly pleased to allow him such advances.

"Oh...not talking, are we?" he queries curiously, twisting his head so close to my own it seems as if he might be trying to sense the answer by an means necessary, "Make a little noise for us to make sure you're okay, then."

He changes tactics mid-sentence and switches to my other side. So that he could purposely and purposfully look into my eyes. See what's happening behind them.

I turn my head defiantly in the opposite direction. Pursing my lips shut as tightly as I can just in spite of him. He doesn't like my response.

In an instant, he's shifting his weight until I feel his body heavy ontop of me. He manages to keep his face close to mine as he does so. Growling louder and louder in the back of his throat the longer I go without obeying his orders.

"Now, now, love—you _will_ make a little noise for us."

That's when I feel a sharp slicing pain draw ever so slowly just beneath my collar bone.

"Aughhh!" I moan out in pain. The feeling of my skin slightly spliting apart beneath his blade makes me squirm in discomfort. The panting onslaught of his laugh beats terrorizingly against my cheek that is still turned to his face.

"Leave her alone you giant sack of shit!" Quinn yells out from beside me.

He stumbles to the side unexpectedly, causing the knife to slip off it's intended course across my skin. He catches himself on the ground beside me. That same snarl from before bubbling in his throat, only deeper and full of rage. Without further warning, he leaps from me to Quinn. My eyes, that had effectively stayed closed this entire time, pop open of their own volition, anxious for the blond's safety.

"Where'd you learn to talk like that little girl?" He furns wickedly. Hovering to a stand before her. Straightening himself to his full height as an act of intimidation.

"Psh. You're mother," she answers snidely. Which now is no time to be snide.

Teeth bared and knife ready, he lunges at her in makeshift retaliation of such an insinuation. I squeal in my chest, very literally, in a way that it never even makes it past my lips. Fearful that this might be the last time I hear Quinn Fabray's voice. What terrible last words. If I weren't so afraid for her right now, I would scold her for such poor taste.

"Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait-wait!" She interupts, holding her tied up feet before her as if it could really stop the gigantic hurling object from pummeling her to death.

But he stops. Right at the point his stomach meets her boot. he holds himself back from lunging any further just as instructed. She pauses for a moment as he hovers over her in anticipation. She looks off to the side in concentration as if she were really mulling it over—really giving consideration to the dnagers behind what she'd just said. I really hope she's planning her apology. And a super sincere one at that. Maybe she can redeem herself with the big thug that obviously has the advantage over her.

"No...yeah, definitely your mother."

He lunges wildly in anger. This time she doesn't stop him. She can't.

Then there's only a ball of moving limbs and flying fists. The sound of her grunts and light groans fill the air each time a fist makes contact with a new spot on her body. She winces when one lands on an already damaged spot. They are most prideful responses compared to the type of pain being inflicted upon her delicate frame—at least delicate in comparison to his. It's as if she's trying to hold back the true call of pain. Because she is so full of such stubborn pride. She won't let herself cry out in a way that might make her seem weak. That, mixed with her unbending pride. Broadway forbid she let anyone know how she most certainly has to be feeling right now! Because it would only reveal how stupid she was for bringing this level of damage upon herself.

So I scream out for her...

"Heavens! Please stop! Please! You're hurting her!" I screech through newly budding tears and a voice that breaks with the beating of my heart.

A fog of tears and running make-up distort my view of him beating her soundless. I can only see one blob writhing ontop of another blob that moves only when a new hit jolts the length of her body beneath his. Because that's how hard he was hitting the blond. Enough to send the force behind each hit throughout her entire body. And as she stops making nosies—as it seems as if I'd never hear the sound of her voice again—I scream out louder and harder for her. In what starts as the same phrase as before, but fades into something that not even I'm able to fully interpret myself.

I scream in the way we were always taught not to during voice lessons. In an act of passionate desperation, my vocal chords carry the brunt of crackling wails and sobs as I beg him to stop. At this point, I don't care if I ruin my voice. I can tell my screamed pleas are ineffective, yet I cannot stop myself from calling out. I don't understand the irrationality of it all. Now doesn't seem much like the time to search and find out. I am pitiless to stop him. I'm helpless to help her. My feet and hands are bound up tight and my body is too small—too weak, to do anything otherwise. The only thing I can do is feel. And so I do. I feel with every emotion I can possibly drag out of myself. I may be too weak to struggle on the outside...but nothing and no one can stop my struggle from the inside.

"Hey, what the fuck are you doing!? This was not in the plans! They're s'pose to be unharmed!" Finn's voice sounds out frantically as if equally disturbed by the display, "You will stand down—Stand down immediately! That's an order!"

His commands go unheard by the angry goon. But they do not go unfollowed.

It takes all of three different men, including Finn, to rip him away from the blond's unmoving body. He fight's against thier hold of him. Whishing, out loud, to continue what he'd started. A mess of screaming, terrifying rage. But it is over. They are carrying him away, out of sight. Not as easily out of mind.

Then I finally have a clear view of the damage he left behind to Quinn's body. She is slouched miserably beside me. In brief moments, it appears as if she is still breathing, though it is hard to tell if this is true or if it's just me wishing for it to be so.

Oh, Quinn...how could you be so foolish? To bring something like this upon yourself? And just before I really got to know you...the real you that you keep locked away. Why do you have to be so stupid and selfish and...stubborn!

I scootch even closer to her; as much as my confinement will allow. Tears continue to roll from my eyes.

"Quinn?" I whimper hopefully. I want her to be okay, really I do!

I want to touch her, shake her, anything to wake her up from whatever spell has her unconscious beside me. But my hands are tied—very literally. Any and all range of movement is limited. I scootch even further into her body, causing her to fall over into my shoulder. Just feeling such lifelessness in the nobel captain creates an even stronger pull at my tear ducts.

"Oh, Quinn! I am so sorry! Please..." I sob, nuzzling my face into her hair. I don't know what exactly I am apologizing for. I don't know exactly what I meant to ask of her even more so. All I am sure of is that I will not allow myself to hold in the surge of pain swirling about inside me. "Please be okay. I know that you're hurting, but please...just be okay..for me?"

The rest is lost in sniffles and sobs. Until there is a slight stirring on my shoulder followed by a light moan. My stomach flips with an emotion much brighter than the one's I felt before...hope.

"Quinn! Oh my—Quinn—baby? Are you okay? Talk to me! Quinn, are you okay!?" I question the girl as she is animated into life once more. The more she stirs, the more I press my cheek into her head. The best hug I can manage at this time. I'm so relieved, that if I could, I would wrap her up in my arms and squeeze her back to life.

"Mm—Rach?" Quinn grumbles, nuzzling closer into my chest.

"Thank the stars above! Quinn, I'm so happy you're okay!"

"I'll be just fine, Rach," she says with a weak chuckle at my display of concern. She groans and nuzzles even further into my chest, her cheek grazing my breast multiple times, and if this were any other time or place I would be incredibly aroused by the gesture. I'm ashamed to admit, even in our current situation, I am still very much aroused by the gesture—uncomfortably so. After a few more tortorous seconds of this, she continues, "calling me pet names and rubbing my face on your chest seems to be just the cure for life-threatening beatings...so thank you for saving mine."

She's being coy. I feel myself growing red with embarrassment and am glad her position hides it from her veiw.

"You asshole!" I snap, thrusting her from off my chest.

She is laughing as I push her off of me, but I don't miss the few winces of pain in between. Physically, it hurts her and I am reminded of her very real, very brutal injuries. I've never much liked teasing, but I cannot bring myself to be upset with her for doing so now. It is almost as if this is the way she copes with everything that has happened. Where I would cry tears of sadness, she must laugh at irreverant wit. And it would be beyond selfish of me to take that from her, I know that.

But there are other things that must be addressed—other feelings that I feel and she should be fully aware of. I will respect her needs, but at the same time, she must repect mine as well.

"Don't scare me like that! I thought you were gone Quinn! I thought he had taken you away in the worst way and that—even if I _did _manage to escape somehow by the grace of Barbra Streisand and every supporting role shadowed by her prescence under the limelight of Broadway—I wasn't going to be leaving here with you...and that scared me," I declare sadly. She stops laughing. I didn't mean to once again change the mood to something so dark and depressing, but if I were to have held that in, it would have likely killed me.

We sit there quietly, side-by-side for a moment, allowing the somberness of the atmosphere to fully wash over us. As it sheds light once more on the fact that something bad has most definitely happened. That something threatened the lives of both of us. That something was changing in the way we are with each other.

"Rachel?" She asks meekly. Far more quiet and reserved than I'd ever heard her speak before. I look over at her, deep into her unsure, questioning eyes and she knows I am listening, "How badly do you want to get out of here?"

"More than anything...but I'm afraid to admit that the possibility of doing so is devistatingly low," I respond, hanging my head in defeat. Ashamed that my planning and intuition wouldn't be able to save us this time. Wouldn't be able to free us from our bonds.

"Well..."she begins, in a tone that suggests there's another option—another way, "What if I tell you you're wrong?"

I look up at her as if she has lost her mind. Of course it is true! I have already gone through every little detail in my head and haven't been able to find a solution so far! What in Liza's name could she possibly be talking about!?

She isn't looking at me. She is looking down towards her thighs stretched out before her...smiling.

I follow her delighted gaze and that's when I see it...my eyes widen and I gasp in shock as she brings a hand to my cheek. Now she is looking at me. I can feel her studying my face in amusement and wonder. But I am far more focused on her other hand, and more specifically what she is holding inside of it.

"You sneaky little dog you," I manage to say as she waggles a familiar knife freely in her other hand. She must've stolen it off the goon while in the tussle from before. A smile widens the length of my cheeks.

"If that's an off-handed way of calling me a bitch, in this case...I might have to agree. See...having a pirate tag along isn't quite as bad as you thought, huh?" she jokes lightly, still unable to hide the lack of strength and tiredness in her voice.

I only chuckle in awknowledgement because yes, having a pirate around has turned out to be quite useful this go-round. I never thought I'd see the day when I approved of stealing, but right now, I could kiss Quinn Fabray for being the maniacal little theif she is!

I turn away eagerly in excitement. Offering my bindings out to her from behind so that she can cut me free. My entire body relaxes long held tension as the restraints around my wrists fall to the floor.

"How did you—How in the world did you manage to get that from him? And with your hands tied behind your back nonetheless!?" I ask in fascination as I rub at the pain-staking freedom of my wrists.

"A pirate must always have her secrets my dear, but maybe one day...if you ask me reeeaaal nicely...I might share it with you," she says softly, though with the most powerful suggestion. It makes me blush once more. Something, I'm beginning to think Quinn has quite the knack for doing. And when when I look to her face, it is deathly pale. She smiles, and this time it does nothing to hide all that lies beneath. It's time we got out of here.

She leans forward to cut away the ties that bind her feet, wincing in pain and failing to no avail. She is too wounded to cut herself free. Maybe it's time I save her for once. Maybe it's time she finally lets someone.

Her eyes widen as I lean over her body. My hair brushes along her chest. My face stays level with hers, keeping eye contact the entire time I shift. I blush again at our closeness. Though I didn't have much of a choice. My feet are still bound, so there wasn't really any other way I could get to the thing I meant to reach for in the first place.

With my now free hand, I gently slip the knife from her grasp and slowly make my way down to cut away the ties around her ankles. Once they are freed, I cut away my own and pocket the knife safely in the bright red ribbon around the waist of my dress. I might need it later after all, and a girl's got to be prepared the next time she runs so freely into the throws of danger.

I quickly check our surroundings. Finn and his group of goons have long since gone and there is no real trace of any other security figures other than Beiste who is busied by whoever remains on the other end of the call on her commset. I haven't really planned it out fully, like I normally would, but it seems clear at this point that there's really only one way out.

I scoot even closer to Quinn and wrap an arm around her waist.

"Do you think you'll be okay to stand?"

With my free hand, I lift her arm that is closest to me over my shoulder. I'm met with a low cry of pain. I guess that answers my question.

With a sad sigh, I gently lower her arm back down, not intending to hurt her any more than she already is.

"No, no! Don't stop! We need to get out of here," she whimpers in pain, pushing her arm back up and around my shoulder. She is determined to fight just about everything. I'm not foolish enough to stand between her and her stubbornness...at least not this time. In light of the current situation, she has proven how useful a characteristic it can be. And I whole-heartedly agree; we need to get out of here. We _can_ get out of here. With a little combined effort from the both of us, we can make it out alive—we can make it...home.

With a sudden jolt of energy and strength, I lift us both from the floor. I ignore her soft cries of pain and stand us up right and ready to go. There is no time to question. This is our only shot—our only opportunity. I know she knows this. She knows that as well as I do. This is not the time to feel pain or sorrow or anything that might hinder us from making our escape.

And so we do the only thing left for us to do...run like mad.

* * *

><p>We ran. We ran and ran and ran...and even when it seemed like we had finally lost them, we ran some more.<p>

After miles and miles of running, we make it to Quinn's ship, sitting where we'd left it earlier that day, just as peacefully as when we'd left it.

And though Quinn is slowing down and I know we cannot run for forever, I refuse to stop until we are safely aboard the _Trinity._

We slip through the door quickly and out of breath. We'd been running for what seemed like hours, now that we'd finally had a chance to stop and catch up with ourselves.

My head starts to ache again, in the same dull throb from before. My lungs burn as I gasp to regain all the air I'd lost from running. And it is only now—now that I feel safe in the confines of Quinn's ship—that I notice just how exhausted I am. I feel miserable—safe...but miserable. At least I am safe.

Quinn looks as miserable as I feel. Her entire body has paled to a shade no whiter than a freshly bleached set of bedsheets. She shouldn't have run as much as she did in her condition. I don't know if it made anything worse, but it most certainly didn't make things better. She looks as if she could faint at any moment.

I feel sympathy for the poor girl. And in the one last act of strength left in my tiny body, I lift her from the ground and sling her arm back over my shoulders—this time, supporting more of her body weight than when we were running.

It is odd how the feeling of security can bring out such weakness in a being. In that moment when we are finally able to relax, one can't help but relax a little too much. Allowing themselves to fully feel the pain they'd ignored up to this point in order to be able to make it this far in the first place. Sadly, this is when we feel the weakest. With no adrenaline left to guide us any further.

"Let's get you to the infirmiry—Just a little more, okay baby?" I say soothingly against her ear, this time, fully meaning to call her by the pet name. I liked how it sounds coming from my own lips. I like its association with her.

A weak smile lightens her face in color. The color of happiness. I smile in return before dragging us both off in the direction of the _Trinity's_ med bay.

Muted voices muffle the air as we come upon the comm room. They are immediately recognizeable. Between the low grumble of Santana's protests and the high pitched squeal of Brittany's pleads, it is obvious the two have somehow made it out alive as well and are now arguing over what they should do next.

I don't have time to take part in such conversations right now. Quinn is losing it fast. It's more and more evident with each step as her weight becomes heavier and heavier on my shoulders. Almost too much for me to bear.

Still, I trudge us both onward, past the commotion in the comm room and toward the one place I know I can truly help Quinn Fabray.

"OH MY GOD! IT'S THEM!" Brittany gasps out unexpectedly.

In the next instant they are on either side of us, rambling and asking questions much too fast for me to fully answer. Then again, that might not have been the point in asking at all.

"Thank God!"

"Where have you been!?"

"What happened to you guys!?"

"I can't believe you made it out alive, they had you guys for sure!"

"Rachel, you're bleeding!"

"Why is Quinn not talking!?"

"Why aren't you answer me!? Do you have any idea how worried sick we've been!?"

I'm starting to feel weak myself. Then again, that shouldn't surprise me. I've lost a lot of blood myself—to have a cut that wasn't as deep as it would have originally seemed. After awhile, it starts to take it's toll on me, under the heavy weight of Quinn's damaged body. And for the first time, I don't think I will make it to the med bay. Even though I'm still determined as ever to do so.

"Guys, Please! Now is not the time!" I interrupt their onslaught of questions, unable to handle much more of the attack, "I will explain everything, but as you can see, the captain and I are severly wounded. Might we make it to the infirmiry before we go into all of this?"

They both snap to reality, realizing now what has only just been in front of them the entire time. Their faces hang in disgust at our rather disheveled appearances. Santana rushes to the captain's open side and immediately, Quinn's weight becomes more bareable across my shoulders. The blond groans at the new instrusion.

"Come on there Picard...let's get you all patched up," Sanatana says lightly as we both carry her the last few steps to the med bay. She just seems relieved to be able to talk to us again at all.

We reach the med bay without further conversation. Immediately I start pulling Quinn towards the vitality-module. I may not be a licensed physician, but I have studied more about medical rejuvenation than anyone else in this room. And I still had favors to repay my most loyal captain.

"Okay hob goblin, now it's time to talk about what all that mess back there was about," Santana demands as we lay the blond down on the table and prepare her to be scanned by the large machine.

"Well—"Quinn makes to answer as I remove her shirt and fire up the machines. Thank the galaxies they cover her partial nudity before it can fully affect me.

"I wasn't asking you captain insistent. Now keep your mouth shut so the machine can do it's job," she interrupts Quinn before she can continue. Surprisingly, the blond doesn't fight back with her usual jest and banter. Just lays her head back down on the table and accepts the order.

Santana's eye snaps to me. I try to busy myself with the readings by the telemission on the screen before me, but the results aren't near ready to be fully calculated. I'm left to stare at random strings of numbers and symbols that are without conclusive meaning as of yet. Which leaves me open to the Latina's prying.

"I'll ask again, Berry...what the hell happened back there!?" She growls impatiently, slowly nearing me into the corner. I do owe them an explanation.

But the truth is, I haven't much found one for myself. I've been so focused on survival and getting both Quinn and I back here alive, that the reality of it all hasn't had the proper amount of time to really settle in. I'm usually much more prepared for questions like this. I'm that girl you go to when you need an open book. But the truth is, this one time, I don't have an answer. And I don't know how to even find one. At least, not one that would be remotely acceptable by my own standards. I can't speak much on behalf of the persistent Latina, but I'm sure she'll be equally displeased with anything I could offer in place of that.

"Well, it seems as if a lot has happened recently Santana. I'm afraid it's quite the story, um—" Before I can start telling it though, soft hands swivel me around and push me into a chair. I almost protest the act until Brittany comes into view with a look of total concern.

"Britt, what are you—"

"Shh. Relax little Rachel. I'm just gonna stitch up that cut real quick. No need to worry," the blond responds sweetly preparing a small table next to her with various needles and thread to do just as she'd said, "now go on...tell your story."

"Well okay...um..where to start really...I suppose it all began—OUCH!" I call out. The pinprick of a needle being jabbed into my shoulder, close to my new wound interrupts any hope of continuing. Brittany rubs the sore spot, offering encouraging noises to dissipate the pain of having been so surprised. Not too long after that the numbness from whatever neural blockers she used to dull the pain leak out across my upper body, leaving behind the wondrous feel of nothing in its wake. She threads her needle, biting at the end of a long line of thread, and nods for me to continue.

"They—those men back there—work for the coalition. They seemed to be very interested in me, though I am still not sure as to why that might be—"

"They tied us up like cattle. Then one of them decided to get cute and cut Rachel so I gave him the beating of his life," Quinn continues from her place on the table, obviously feeling slightly better from the drugs being fused into her body as well. Funny...that's not quite how I remember the story going though. I don't correct her on it. She deserves whatever stroking of her ego she so desires. Especially after a being on the receiving end of a beating like that...if it's really true that she did so to keep it from happening to me.

"She stole a guard's knife and we broke free and ran," I continue even further, only looking down to notice that Brittany is nearly done stitching up my wound, "Wow. You're really good at that, Britt."

"Of course she is! Who do you think does all the sewing around here!?" Santana calls out proudly from across the room. She had been pretending to read the monitors for me as soon as I was pulled away. A sign she is just as eager to learn the results of her Captain's recovery.

"It's true! I even do all the embroidery in everyone's jackets," Brittany chirps happily from beside me. She ties up the last of the knot and pats my leg as a sign to stand up.

"But I thought Santana said she did all of that..." I reply quizzically as I immediately go to the monitors that beep in finality.

"I watched," Santana adds in a childish tone. Brittany smiles and pats her head in agreement.

I'm more interested in the results of Quinn's scan. All other conversation is just filler until I know for sure, in very conclusive medical terms, that the blond is going to be okay.

So...No broken bones. No damaged organs. Severely fractured ribs, however. Which would explain her shallow breathing and difficulty speaking. She will definitely be bruised up for awhile, but the damage is apparently only superficial. I sigh one last breath of relief, happy with these results. She _will_ be just fine.

"How did you two escape?" I ask Santana and Brittany as I program the vitality-module to cease it's hold of Quinn—now that I have what I want.

"I don't know really...one minute we're holding someone at gunpoint, ready to fire and the next we're laying outside in an ally somewhere, stripped of our weapons and our dignity. I knew immediately that we'd been knocked out, but I still don't know why they let us live..." Santana answers.

I rummage through the many cabinets filled with medical supplies looking for the proper ingredients to tend to Quinn's wounds, silently taking in the Latina's story as it's offered to me. I nearly drop everything I'd managed to gather as I turn around though. Quinn is sitting upright on the table, completely topless before my bare eyes. I gasp in amazement.

Obviously it is too early for the bruising to start, but the skin that will color the most is red and swollen across her torso. Though, no amount of physical treachery has managed to successfully ruin the figure of the most enthralling Quinn Fabray. My eyes and mouth water simultaneously in some form of conflicted emotional display of sympathy and desire. The only thing snapping me from my haze is her dogged determination to wrap her ribs in a bandage.

I rush over to stop her immediately. Not because of the way she is covering the part of her body I have yet to stop gawking over, but because she is practicing the most incorrect medical procedure for someone in her condition.

"No! Stop it Quinn! You can't just wrap a fractured ribcage in a bandage!" I proclaim, swatting away her hands and the bandage from her chest.

"Well why not?" She challenges, not one to give in when she's in the process of healing. When she feels the slightest bit vulnerable as the healing process notoriously does. But that's no excuse for incorrect medical procedure.

"Because captain...doing so would keep your ribs from moving when you breathe or cough, and that may lead to the development of pneumonia," I state clearly as if it should be common knowledge to everyone in the room. Though it most assuredly is not.

"I think I liked it better when you called me baby," she says off-handidly, ignoring a highly important medical fact that could potentially save her life one day by knowing. Obviously, she hadn't been too far gone to let that one go. I did say it twice...and meant to the second time.

I decide not to respond to her previous comment and go about nurturing her wound...the correct way.

"This," I emphasize the clear gunk on the tips of my fingers by holding it in her direct eyeline, "Is Necronite—well, a diluted mixture of Necronite anyways. I had to mix and match with what I could find and unfortunately, your infirmery is poorly equipped for emergencies..." I can see her rolling her eyes from the corner of my own. I ignore the gesture and gently begin rubbing the gelled medication across her ribs, "This will help keep the swelling down."

The gel is cool and comforting on my fingertips as they slide across her skin. The rise and fall of her chest quickens percetibly as I continue.

"This," I emphasize by holding a small octogonal pill before her eyes, "Is Anactel. It is more commonly used for it's ability to lower blood pressure, but most don't know of it's analgesic ability. So, this...is for the pain," I say softly, pressing the little pill past her lips, followed by a glass of water to help her swallow it down. I allow her a moment for the effects to kick in before continuing my treatment.

"This," I emphasize as I smack her across the face quickly, "Is for being such an idiot. Don't you ever scare me like that again, Quinn Fabray! You could have died back there, doing the things you did and as much as I hate to admit it, I've become somewhat attached to the idea of you and it would have been rude and selfish of you to have allowed me to watch you die so violently before me!"

She just sits there wide-eyed and shocked that I would do such a thing to an injured being.

"And this," I finish, pressing three sweet kisses to each damaged section of her ribs, she shivers with each gentle press of my lips to her exposed skin, "is for saving our lives. For it is believed that kisses are the most healing cure for any and all fractures and breaks and I'm afraid I owe you many..." I say the last bit up into her eyes, hoping she understands that I mean much more than for the events of today. She smiles down at me. Her hand slides into my hair, sending the lovliest chills down my back. I continue to press kisses up the length of her torso until I stand eye-level before her, gaze set to her lips. I lean forward, ready to take them in my own when she tugs lightly at my hair; her hesitancy, preventing me from taking the one thing I want the most right now. But I won't allow her to deter me any further.

"Sorry, doctor's orders," I mumble before pressing my lips to hers in a long, passionate, closed-mouth kiss. The symbol of my true appreciation. She smiles into the kiss, and hums happily as it ends.

"So now that doctor Rachel has you all fixed up, it only seems right for needy, freightened little victim Rachel to ask...are you okay, baby?" I say just as sweetly as our kiss. Wrapping my arms slowly and carefully around her neck, until I am close enough to rest my forhead on hers.

"Much..MUCH better, thank you," she responds behind that same smile from before. And it is so mesmerizingly contageous, I can't help but mirror it with a smile of my own.

I'm happy just to be here. Alive. In Quinn's arms. The one place, that for the slightest moment, seemed as if I would never enjoy again. I'm not dim. I'm fully aware that she will most likely _not_ follow my orders. And the slap part of the treatment, being the only sign of just how upset only she has the capability of making me, is probably the farthest thing from her mind right now. But I want to make sure that I never again regret not having this opportunity the next time she does decide to risk her life carelessly. I won't die until I've spent as much time as possible holding onto the reckless blond.

"Okay, so enough with the lovey dovey bullshit. We get it. No need to sap it up with your boringly cute nonsense," Santana's uncomfortable comment ruins the connection. I pull away shyly from Quinn, who can't seem to peel her eyes away from me. Her excessive attention makes me all the more shy. The blond, sensing this, grabs for my hand, lacing our fingers together between us. We may have stopped kissing, but we won't be as successful in distancing our bodies. Not after a day like today. Santana let's out a frustrated sigh, reminding us of our audience that has still yet to go away.

"So..where's Puck?" Brittany asks as she curls up to Santana's side, beneath the girl's open arm.

"I dunno—thought he was with you guys," Quinn answers methodically, still staring intently into my eyes in a way that melts the entirety of my insides. Speaking as if she is in a trance from the spell that has her cast to do so.

But something doesn't seem quite right. I only tear my eyes away from the blond's to look about the room in search of the missing boy.

"Nope. He never came back with us. We had to find our way back blindly from wherever the hell it was they dumped us. Lucky Britt-Britt's such an awesome navigator or we probably woulda never made it back to the ship," Santana retorts, securing her arms tighter around the chipper blond.

The fact that Quinn is forced to lose contact with whatever she always finds so interesting in my eyes seems to make her more alert to the situation at hand.

"Well then...where is he," she asks, suddenly back to full captain mode.

My heart suddenly drops once again for Noah.

"Shit, I dunno Q! We haven't seen him since your little sing-a-long in the market."

"What do you mean, 'you don't know?'" The blonde's grasp tightens on my hand.

"I mean, I don't fucking know where the fuck he is, Quinn! Like I said, I haven't seen him," the Latina roars, and suddenly they are back to they're old way of interacting with each other, "It's kinda hard to keep tabs on someone when you've been knocked out and abandoned in the middle of slap ass nowhere, so excuse me for not keepin an eye on the grown-ass man who's capable of watching out for his own damn self!"

"Chill, San! I just wanted to know where he is because he is obviously not here!" Quinn calls out hotly.

"Well I don't know the answer to that! And if we're bein honest, he didn't much hang around to help out his crew either so he kinda deserves to get left behind if he's gonna play it like that!"

"We're not leaving him behind! Stop being such a bitch!"

A few more insults and accusations fly accross the room before I finally can't take it anymore.

"Okay you two, that's enough!" I call out in between them loud enough to stop their bickering, "Insulting each other doesn't answer anything and it surely doesn't help us find out where Noah might be! So I suggest the two of you sit down, stop yelling at each other, and really start to think things through..."

They follow my instructions. Santana falls to a chair behind her and pulls Brittany to her lap. Quinn sits back down on the table, and to my surprise, pulls me to stand between her legs. As frustrated as I am by her behavior, I can't find it in me to step away from her embrace. Her arms cling tight about my waist, which pulls me in a way that presses my back so deliciously up against the front of her warm body. Not to mention the fact that she is still naked from the waist, up. I fight an involuntary moan at the feeling of her hardened nipples against the bare skin of my back that has been effectualy left uncovered by the low cut of the dress.

"N-now think. Where's the first place one might search for Noah?" I ask the room, in attempt to distract myself from the clutches of the blond.

There isn't an answer for awhile. Though they all seem as if they were really considering all the possibilities inside their heads. All except for Quinn of course. Who is busy pressing the lightest of kisses across the open back of my shoulder blade. Each brush of her lips sends the slightest of tingles throughout my body. Each chill makes me all the more aware of her breasts sliding softly across my back with even the slightest of movement. I lean back into her, unable to stop myself from over-indulging in more of her touch.

Then, suddenly, it appears everyone in the room has suffered a moment of realization except me. Even Quinn's head snaps up from her previous minstrations. And in unified chorus of recognition, they all speak what has so quickly jumped to their minds:

"Zizes."

* * *

><p><strong>And there you have it. Please note that I do all of my own writing AND editing and that is what takes me so long to get everything up and posted. As you can probably tell, I didn't dedicate as much time this go round with editing this chapter. But I promise to clean it up more over time, I just wanted you guys to have it after waiting so long. I apologize once more for how long it took to get it up and I thank you for sticking with me on this thing like you have. You are marvelous readers! And I promise not to disappoint...thank you again, and I love you all! :)<strong>


	8. You Know You'll Never Meet a Mother Fuck

**Many reviewers have compared this story to Firefly, and I would just like to say: 1) I am beyond honored that my writing is being compared to that of the great Joss Whedon, and 2) The _Trinity_ is not even half as beautiful a ship as the _Serenity_...in fact, the only ship that might even come close in pure beauty might be the _Normandy_.**

**As far as this chapter goes, it may seem a little rushed at times, especially towards the end and I apologize profusely for that. I just hate reading all the puppy-dog-faced sadness in your reviews when I don't post an update fast enough. It just breaks my heart in two. So, this go-round, I cut out a lot of editing time so that I could get it to you faster. Please let me know if there are any problems along the way. I write for you :)**

**Disclaimer: I own a laptop, ten fingers, and a few nutty ideas...and that is all I have to say about that.**

**I now present you with the next chapter of Intergalactic Love Songs...**

**(*sings*) _Take my love, take my land  
>Take me where I cannot stand<br>I don't care, I'm still free  
>You can't take the sky from me-<em>**

**Oh wait...nevermind...sorry..I forgot, this isn't Firefly. And I can't afford a disclaimer for that as well. I hear Mr. Whedon is relatively sensitive about that kind of thing :/**

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><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

**You Know You'll Never Meet a Mother Fucker Quite Like Me**

**Quinn's Point of View**

The Q14 Rook. My most prized possession. No bigger than a sawed-off shotgun, with a caliber of a 12-gauge, and the magazine capacity of an AK-47. It's rumored that one round from a Q14 Rook could easily pass through several carbon-based targets—even if each were equipped with full body armor. Making it one of the single-most deadly weapons in the universe. The perfect selection for what I have in mind for Lauren Zizes.

I hold the gun out for Rachel to take, who is sitting nearby on my desk. Her skirt ruffles and sways with the movement of her legs that are long enough for certain distraction but not long enough to touch the bedroom floor.

"What's that for?" She asks quietly. The slight aura of disgust evident in her eyes as she stares at the gun being offered to her.

"For you. For protection," I answer just as quietly.

There's nothing I'd love more than to be the marksman behind the Q14's slug as it pierces through Zizes' skull. But then again, I might feel more strongly for Rachel. Er—for her life, I mean.

Given my experience in the past few days, I'd feel much safer knowing the world's most deadly weapon was in her hands.

Slowly, she leans farther and farther away from it. My first clue that she isn't going to cooperate so easily. What I've learned to be a classic Rachel move in the face of damn near everything. Because God forbid she ever NOT be difficult. It tries at my patience.

"I'm not touching that thing," her words are thick with resentment and futile protest. She has voiced my deepest concern, and it only makes me all the more frustrated. I grow red-hot in my anger. And for a minute, I can't tell what pisses me off more: her for not just taking the damn gun or myself for not knowing the best way to make her take it.

"Just take it, Rachel. Don't argue with me on this one..."

I step closer. Hold my arm out longer in hopes that she will finally accept the weapon from my death-iron grip. I force back the snarl rising in my chest as she once again leans farther away from the offer. Her face lit with a fierce enthusiasm. And then I lose my temper.

"Goddammit Rachel! Why do you have to fight me on everything!?" I scream loudly in frustration; feeling it ooze through all the barriers I've worked so hard for many years to build and maintain inside me. To keep people from getting in. To keep me from getting out, "Why can't you understand!? These aren't our friends, Rachel! There's not a nice bone anywhere in their fucked up bodies! They wouldn't even hesitate to put a bullet straight through your head, you need some way to defend yourself—why can't you just accept that!? I want you to want to defend yourself—with every goddamn inch of your life! I want you to—" my words suddenly soften in my throat. I don't have the capacity to speak them as loud even though I mean them with the same growing ferocity, "I want you to be safe..."

I turn away from her and cradle the gun in both hands; staring it down like all the answers lay somewhere beneath the thick chrome-plated steel barrel. But it's just a gun. A lifeless block of metal, with nothing but more metal tucked inside. It's useless as long as she doesn't take it. It's worthless if she won't use it to defend her life.

"I can't lose you when I've only just gotten you to begin with...I can't find out what it would feel like if I did," I say even quieter than before. I'm not too sure she even heard me. And then she stirs from behind as if she were struggling to find an appropriate response to what I'd just unveiled.

"I understand the need for defense, but...is there not a more humane way of doing so?" she asks solemnly—almost tepidly as if she were truly afraid to push me any farther than she already has.

I should be angry. Because once again, I've offered her the safest weapon I can think for her to defend herself and she has refused. If it were anybody else sitting in her place, blatantly resisting me like she has, the argument would have already been settled by now. And I would definitely be raging if it weren't. But it's just not the same with Rachel. She's unlike anyone I've ever met before. I chuckle to myself. Because, really—only Rachel Barbra Berry would ask for a humane way to kill a man.

Don't get me wrong, it still frustrates me beyond belief. But at the same time, I think it's something I like about the little diva. How our opinions tend to be so diametrically opposed that it comes to this. What sorry and pitiful quibbling. At the same time, it's something I'd give every inch of my own life to defend, and even then after my life as well. When it hits me...death. Afterlife. The Ghost!

I rush back over to the weapons locker and dig around for my last hope of keeping Rachel safe. I don't fight the smile that forms when I find what it is I'd been searching for among the array of armors and personal weaponry. I turn back towards her, holding out a pair of titanium three-finger flex archery arm guards.

"Really? I'm supposed to beat someone to death with fancy metal gloves?" she says sarcastically, looking at me as if I'd lost my mind. I just continue to smile and begin strapping the arm guards to my own wrists. "Tell me, Quinn...in what way does that seem any more humane than a gun? Or perhaps your definition of the word humane doesn't match that of my own. Maybe I should be more clear in the way I emphasize my distaste for killing, hm? Or would that just fly over your head as well? Are you even listening—"

I hold out a titanium-covered hand before her so swiftly, it stops her mid-rant.

Dark titanium rods spring out mechanically from my palms, leaving behind the lightest echo of shinking metal as bar-by-bar the luminous material extricates into its full form as a recurve bow. Both of the bow's upper and lower limbs snap back sharply from the sight window and the grip, formulating a razor sharp arched body. And then there is anticipatory silence that feeds off the quick breathy gasp slipping from Rachel's beautiful mouth as she watches on in awe of the sleek and powerful weapon that appeared from nowhere in only a matter of seconds.

I flex my hand on the grip, signaling the final stage in its transformation. A bright string of electric blue light shoots from the tip of the top limb until it connects to the bottom limb notch, forming the most deadly part of the weapon yet.

I hold the beautiful weapon out before me to allow Rachel a better look. She drops down from the table and continues to watch in awe. And soon enough she is close enough that the light of the bow string lights the wonder in her face with electric blue luminosity.

"It's so...beautiful..." she mumbles in a sort of daze, by virtue of her impassioned curiosity. Which is to be expected. Such a reaction isn't uncommon in the face of The Ghost. It's actually exactly why this kind of weapon isn't standard issue among the armies of "civil society." Too often, military leaders feel as if the weapon is more distracting than it is deadly. However, what they fail to recognize is that is precisely the kind of thing that makes such an instrument so deadly. And a bandit such as myself, revels in the unfair advantage the illustrious distraction brings. Naturally, I jumped on the chance to own one. Conveniently, only one exists. And it is the same one I hold out before the transfixed brunette, now, still fully prepared to come to some kind of mutual agreement in light of her safety.

"Rachel, meet The Ghost," I say introductorily, as if formally acquainting a girl with her new best friend, "Or as most people call it, The AMF Bow."

She reaches out in her enrapture to graze the titanium steal of the limbs.

"What does that stand for?" She asks, though her voice shows little concern with receiving any real answer. It's more a filler of words to subjugate all that's missing in-between. She is undeniably hooked.

"What? AMF?" I question back, even when I know it's what she was talking about. She nods her head in response, "Well, promise not to get mad or anything, but—Well—this bow was forged to be a highly calibrated, highly precise, killing machine. The combination of latest focal targeting technology mixed with it's speed, quietness, and never ending supply of light energy arrows...it's safe to say no one really stands the wrath of this thing...even a non-experienced user could cherry pick-off thirty men in a manner of nanoclicks, using no more than one arrow a piece. So...the name's abbreviated because it was soon discovered that you could take out your enemies quicker than it took to say its full name...a name that perfectly represents a few last words for your poor victims..."

"And what's that?" She asks brightly, finally looking up to meet my gaze; suddenly more interested in my little story. I feel my lip curl up into my cheek. She won't like the answer. But that doesn't stop me from saying it. I'd never opt out on the opportunity to mess with her a little. Knowing I have the ability to get under her skin like I do only makes me want to do it more with each passing chance.

"Adios Mother Fuc—"

"Okay, I'm just going to stop you right there because I know where that was going...and I'm not all too sure I'm that comfortable going there," her delicate little fingers have come up to cover the words from escaping my mouth, almost rendering her monologue on the subject completely moot, "but I understand why you had to in the first place. I think I'll just call it the Ghost, instead."

She always has this way of saying things without ever actually saying them. And it's not even as if it's conveyed in a look or a meaningful touch, like you'd expect those kinds of things to be. It's almost like an aura. A feeling she gives off that wraps tightly to the area around me and consumes me in whatever meaning she intends for me to understand. It is hands down the strangest connection I have ever had with somebody, and yet at the same time, I find myself devastated at the thought of letting go. Of her letting go. I crave whatever I can take from her, like the very criminal blood pumping through my veins that causes me to live the life I do.

The gentle touch of her hand as it rests atop mine that is grasping to the grip of the bow grows more and more overwhelming as the seconds pass among the light hum of the light energy bow string and its evanescent glow lighting what little space remains between us. God, how I wish she'd close it.

And she does...drawing nearer slowly, so in tune with my inner thoughts and wishes. My eyes inch closed the closer her face gets to mine. The light press of her lips on my own draws the sweetest sigh from my body as she pulls away with every intention that this be a short-lived simple kiss. Only offering enough to show she cares, but still taking a part of me with her as she pulls away puckishly from what was only meant to be sweet and innocent.

"You wanna give it a try?" I breath into her lips, when her closeness becomes a mild form of torture to my abating senses. She nods shyly, eyes lighting up to match the brightness of the bow string. Her eagerness is adorable.

I clutch the handle once and the bow string light energy disappears back into the tip. I clutch the handle once more and the limbs collapse one onto the other, sheathing themselves back into the arm guards. They are off of me and on her in an instant. Her hands are small and prehensile in them. Her eyes, glimmering star-like in her tan face as she looks down on them in marvel. In response to the beckoning of alien appeal, she flexes her fingers out before her, adjusting to the feeling of something new. That, or she's trying to signal their transformation.

Without second thought, I step up behind the struggling girl; pressing my body tightly to her back; coiling myself around her in submission to each and every spur of contact my body makes as it envelops hers. Her hair is done up in a sloppy bun on top of her head, leaving her neck wide open and almost begging for the taking. The peach fuzz resting there tickles faintly at my nose, that is drawn like a magnet to the sweet patches of skin that lie beneath. She smells like milk and honey. She smells like me. A scent I find irresistible and unbelievably sexy the minute my nasal receptors decode the familiarity of it. She shivers beneath my touch when the tip of my nose brushes lightly across her skin. Selfishly I breath her in as if my life depended on it.

With a throaty sigh, she relaxes further into me. Her fingers have stopped flexing and for the moment, the arm guards are forgotten. I need to taste her. Her breath catches audibly in her throat with the barest of kisses to her neck. She slips a hand up to the back of my head and clutches tightly in the mess of hair as my tongue licks a path across where I'd just kissed. She tastes every bit as what I imagined...sweet and savory. But this is not the reason we are here huddled so close. I fight myself for focus. Struggle to find control so I can teach her how to safely use this dangerous weapon in her hands. My desire to keep her safe freely wins out over the desire to ravish her...though not much more would have been as successful enough to contain me. Lucky for us both, I guess, that I have such a strangely perverse and poverty-stricken imagination.

With one last press of my lips to her neck, I glide my finger tips down the length of her other arm until it reaches the gloved hand at the end—the one that isn't buried in my hair—and hold it out before us in order to start the demonstration.

"Are you ready?" I husk against the shell of her ear. She shudders at the contact and nods in response once more, "Hold your hand out in front of you, away from your body...like you're about to shake someone's hand..."

She does as I say and I bury my face into the spot behind her ear to hide a smile.

"Very good," I place a few more kisses there before I continue, "Now, to summon the body of the bow, simultaneously flex both your first and fourth fingers inwards towards the palm of your hand—but only those two, leave the two middle ones and your thumb out..."

Again, she physically repeats the steps as I tell them to her and again, I press a few more kisses to that sweet spot behind her ear—for encouragement, reassurance, whatever you want to call it at this point. For me, it seems easier if I don't. If I don't call it anything at all. I'm very aware of my motives. How I want to touch her. How being so close to her sets me at an ease that isn't easily explainable to anyone outside myself. It's always easier to just feel it. To simply exist in the moment when something like this is happening, instead of rooting around for a label that will never be a remotely good enough fit.

The titanium rods activate, stacking out into place just as they had when I first summoned them.

"Damn girl...fast learner," I flirt once the body of the bow has fully extended and locked into place; and I can almost feel her swooning at the compliment in my arms, "To summon the bow string, hold out your first and fourth fingers, and flex your two middle fingers into the grip instead..."

It takes her a minute to adjust, but once she does, the same blue LED light shoots out from the tip to the notch just as it had before. She jumps a little in my arms in shock as it does. I wrap them tighter around her waist in refuge, letting her find a moment of composure within the promise of safety there. I don't want her to be afraid of the weapon, after all. That'd be more than two steps backwards from my target initiative, which is two steps more than I'm willing to take with this girl. Although, she has been known to surprise me before.

"Whoa," she says in amazement, "But how do I...shoot? Where are the arrows?"

Reluctantly, I reach for the hand she still has tangled in my hair and remove it from where it had been massaging lightly at my scalp. I lead it over to grip the light energy bow string, and use my other hand to lift her arm to position the bow. She flinches briefly at the sudden closeness of the LED bow string, humming readily, as I mold both of our bodies into an archer's position around the weapon.

"Don't worry...it won't hurt you," I whisper comfortingly into her ear, allowing her another moment to adjust to it all, "the bow string is made of solid light energy, so it wouldn't hurt you if you touched it. Actually, it wouldn't do anything if you were to touch it with your bare hands, see?" I say playfully as I wave my own fingers back and forth through the light waves unharmed, "You need the glove in order to manipulate it. Otherwise, it's nothing more than a giant flashlight."

She chuckles brightly at the joke. Almost matching the brightness of the bow string—that is, if such intonations were seen rather than heard. Nothing could ever sound as sweet.

"The arrows, on the other hand, are a little bit different," I warn cautiously, ready to introduce the next piece, "Hold your first finger out, away from the grip. And with the other hand, pinch the bow string between your thumb, first, and second finger and pull back very slightly..."

She does. A beam of light shoots out from the bow string until a perfectly formed arrow rests against the arrow rest on the grip of the bow. The shaft glows in the same color as the bow string within the carbon nanotube that contains it, but the broad arrow head contrasts with a deep violet hue.

"The back end of your arrows are safe to touch. They're just made of the same light energy as the bow string...this includes the notch and fletching. You hold the notch of the arrow to keep the tail-end of your arrow steady as you aim..."

I guide her right hand back with my own, watching the light energy string stretch out as we do.

"But stay clear of the arrow head...that purple light you see at the tip, that's ultraviolet light. That's how the arrows cut through organic skin so easily."

I try not to dwell on this particular fact for too long. I know the subject makes her uncomfortable, and while I enjoy teasing her sometimes, I'm always wary of crossing my limit with the tiny diva. I'd never want to push her too far, knowing well what that can be like when I do. Instead, I redirect her attention to the floating display hovering in air around the bow handle.

"That...is your targeting control panel. It scans for any type of kinetic energy within a 2.5 kilometer radius and targets based on motion and thermal-heat signatures. So...you just line it up with the sight window," I keep one hand above hers on the grip and adjust the angle until it is within sight, "then, holding on to the notch of the arrow. Draw back your string," I hold tight to her wrist as we both pull the light-energy string back until the steady hum drones eagerly next to our ears, "and release."

Her fingers let go. The light arrow zips through the air and straight through a shirt that had been hanging out to dry, fluttering lightly from the air conditioning unit next to it. Because THAT's just how good this bow is...Adios mother fucker.

"Holy shit! No fucking way," Santana's voice bellows throughout the room more than announcing her arrival, further fueling my agitation as well, "You mean to tell me, I've worked on this ship loyally for ten years and don't even get to so much as acknowledge the existence of the AMF bow for all this time...and then Twinkie, here, hangs around for a month, fucks the captain, and gets to use it on her first mission? That's some shit, Q, and you know it!"

Before I can catch myself, I take numerous steps back; sobering in the dreadful rush of cool air that distances our bodies. I'm not really sure why I did it. Only that I've taken great notice of the fact that I did it at all. And had this been an act of war or strategic maneuvers, it would have happened swiftly; with the grace of a jungle cat, to leave my opponent questioning as to whether or not it even happened at all. But with an opponent like Rachel, the act is jerky and hesitant. Making it all the more noticeable and not at all like something I would ever do. It's a relief to know this wasn't an act of war. Or I would have already been dead by now with such awkward movements. Still kind of feels like I might be.

If Santana'd even caught it, she didn't say. But that doesn't mean I won't catch flak for it later. For now, I have something more trivial to deal with.

"It's not fair that she gets the bow, Q, and you know it. What makes her a better candidate than me?"

Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that she is completely defenseless without it! She's just shy of five foot one and weighs maybe a buck, five if you got her wet. She doesn't pose much threat to Zizes and her gang. Not to mention she doesn't want to physically kill someone herself—which makes it extremely difficult to find a suitable weapon for her because her only chance is wielding something that's powerful enough to stop even Lauren's biggest goon in his track. Anything else and she's done for. And if she has no option but to defend to the death, then the ghost was the only weapon I could think of that would satisfy us both. She could defend herself from a far enough distance that death and gore wouldn't affect her, all while using one of the more deadly weapons known to carbon-based life.

I should have said all of that out loud. It probably would have been more beneficial if I had. But that would have required me to show myself. And to Santana of all people. I'll admit, Rachel is changing me. Somehow, in some way. But this is something she won't. That would be crossing a line that I'm not sure is even crossable. Opening up to Rachel is not anything like what opening up to Santana might be. My fists tighten at the thought of it.

"I appreciate you caring so much about me, Quinn," Rachel says softly, brushing her cool fingertips across my cheek.

My brows furrow until I can almost feel them toying with the tips of my eyelids. I know that I never said anything out loud. The thought itself was still too fresh, unprocessed, for me to have willingly said it out loud. Where this conversation originally started and where it has now ended up are two completely different places that are unrelated in more than one way. And the longer I stand here, trying to figure out where in between I managed to get so lost, the more lost I become. To which she just chuckles and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear.

How do you words again...?

"You don't have to say it out loud...it's been pretty evident in the care and patience you've enacted in the past few minutes just to assure my safety." She smiles softly. A smile that compliments the tone of her voice.

I inhale a deep breath, taking all of her in with the full power of my nasal receptors. There's a comfort in her natural smell, and even more in my own scent that rests somewhere above that, as if to protectively mask something so delicate; like the dirty secret meant for my nose alone. There's also a smell that isn't as familiar. Though it's not very strong either. A creamy scent, that much contrasts with any scent of mine or hers.

It's a curious scent; not pleasant, but not undesirable either.

And the more I try to separate it from the rest, the more I start to feel this overwhelming pang of self-doubt. It pulls at my heart looking for an escape in unfamiliar territory. I'd much like it to leave, considering it's confliction with my brain. In an instant, it compels me to look up into the the rich chocolate brown eyes of the woman that has me so captivated. And at the same time I do, I see it. I see the lack of confidence almost as clearly as I feel it inside my own self—but I don't think it's mine. Her gaze cuts through my own in a manner sharp and revealing. Unveiling a need for reassurance that I'm not sure is coming from myself or her at this point. It may not even matter either way. All that really matters is the heavy weight of it all as it lays out between us.

In one quick motion, I grab her hand and give a slight tug; waiting on gravity to pull her the rest of the distance to me, until she collides tightly with the barrier of my body. Her arms grasp tightly around my waist and her chin slips comfortably up under my chin. We both take in one mutual deep breath, relieved in the mechanics of what having another human's body so close can do to guide our own most basic needs—of which seem more difficult to reproduce on our own, without the active guidance from one another.

We don't speak. We don't move—aside from the slight movement caused by our breathing. And not too long after standing there in this embrace, the creamy scent and the unsettling feelings by which it brought is vanished. Replaced with the sultry scent of pine and water—all the makings of elemental nature. That is quick to trigger a feeling as if you were back on your home planet, walking through a nature reserve, taking in all the things that give the planet life. That allow it to be inhabitable. And there's a sort of comfort in that kind of thing.

Santana scoffs from a corner of the room, reminding us that we aren't the only two in the room. And again, I pull away from the embrace quicker than is necessary. Vulnerability flowing off me in waves. With just as much guilt weighing heavy at my heart for feeling the need to do so. The way Rachel sags dejectedly at the rejection each time I do this to her is what causes such guilt. Even though I'm pretty sure I'm the only one that's aware it happens. Knowing I bring that on her—that I bring her down, when all I ever feel nowadays is the overwhelming urge to lift her up.

Where's a good distraction when you need one? Why is it NOW, of all times, Santana has absolutely nothing to say?

I turn away and clip on the rest of my gear awkwardly. Fumbling with the leather straps and metal buckles that shouldn't be this fucking difficult to fasten together.

Nobody, but me makes a sound. Which means they're all watching me. More than likely, they aren't doing so for the same reason, but they are all as equally focused on me nonetheless. I can feel their eyes staring me down from behind. Rachel's in confusion and disbelief; Santana's in momentary loathing; and Brittany's in calm apprehension of the ensuing orders. I turn to face them, and see those same looks etched across each and every one of their faces.

This is what I've got. This is the crew I'm about to take barrelling onto Zizes' compound.

A part of me looks at this piss poor display and wonders how the hell we even made it this far. Even before Rachel, all the shit this crew has gotten into. All the running and fighting, stealing and lying. And then even after Rachel, who in all regards to logic, should not be alive and well under the protection of my sorry-as-all-get-out crew. Santana's a selfish bitch. Brittany's dumb as shit. Puck's on my last fucking nerve. And Rachel is stubbornly trying to prove something to someone when she has no idea what she's doing or what she's gotten herself into. We haven't got a shot in hell.

And then there's the other part of me. The part that's getting real sick and tired of this shit.

My eyes catch Rachel's one last time, and I can't stand to see much more of whatever it is staring back at me. With a swift nod of my head, goggles slip down over my eyes, coloring the world a few shades darker.

"Ray-Ban Mode—Activate." The lenses light up in a stream of data, all relevant to our current mission.

After all the shit I've been through and all I've done to be where I am today, Zizes' best bet is to just stay the hell up out of my way.

"Well..." I call out to my crew, stopping at the door when I realize they haven't moved to follow, "are you guys coming, or is this another battle I'm gonna have to lose on my own?"

But I have not begun to fight.

And so we marched forth to stop Zizes...and maybe save Puckerman in the process...if I'm still feeling nice once it's all said and done.

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><p>I've never bothered much with warning labels. I need encouragement; to be presented in a way that beckons me to use the item or do the task in question. I need a guarantee that if I use it, it will work. If I do it, it will be successful. Not a warning for all the problems it might cause along the way.<p>

The same applies to the "Do not enter" warning sign hanging on the barbed-up fence, surrounding the Zizes estate.

"Halt! This area is restricted by authority of Lauren Zizes and the zWorks AdvancedEnterprises Inc. Any unauthorized presence constitutes a breach of security," one guard states from the many blocking the only entry.

"We're here on official business with Zizes," I respond calmly, hoping I can manage a cool temper for the remainder of this security bullshit.

"Well then, with regard to business, please state your name, title, and reason for being here today," he responded with short biting jest. I do love a confrontational asshole. He'll definitely be one of the first I specifically seek out to kill—should this little meeting turn to that.

"Kind of a big-ass, ugly motherfucker to be a secretary, huh?" Santana responds from behind me. It's easy to see the Brute's internal struggle as he fights the natural urge to attack my second in command and her unwieldly attitude. The fact that he hasn't so much as moved a muscle so far implies Zizes has her minions trained to the 'T' when it comes to acting only on command. He obviously doesn't have the balls to act outside of his leader's order. He's not as threatening as his overbearing size implies—at least—not until he's given the order to attack. Let's just hope Zizes is in a good mood today.

I hold an arm out to prevent Santana from any further harassment, seeing as I have all the info I need on the front side operation. And then continue to answer his earlier question to appease his wretched protocol, "I am captain Quinn Fabray of the _S.S Unholy Trinity_."

"Okay, Captain Fabray," he says skeptically as if he'd heard my name somewhere before but couldn't quite place how hearing it now should cause him to react, "what business do you have with Zizes?"

"You tell her she _knows _what business she has with me."

He gives me another skeptical leer, squinting his eyes like it might help him see the true meaning in so vague a statement. But that is all he does. He doesn't question it or request elaboration more than that. Just turns away sharply and begins speaking directly with his radio comm, leaving us a few feet away with his other guard buddies.

"Sheesh. Not very friendly for a front desk receptionist, is he?" Santana whispers loudly from beside me, keeping eye-contact with the other guards to assure they also hear her, "Seems like something Zizes might wanna know about to keep her notorious 'reputation for customer service.'"

"Down girl. Save it for the kingpin up top, yeah?" I reply in a normal tone. Also, keeping direct eye contact with the officers to ensure we mean no harm—at least, not now.

She grunts in recognition of my command and falls to the background in diligent silence. We wait there awkwardly for a few more minutes before the first brute returns from his radio-comm chat. He doesn't look happy with what he's been asked to do. A look that—coming from your mother—would indicate you were about to receive the response you didn't want to hear. But—coming from him—suggests quite the opposite.

There's a lengthy pause and a deep sigh before he begins speaking again, "Possessions of weapons from this point on are strictly prohibited. As per order, we are required to collect all weapon and weapon-like objects at this time. They will be returned to your possession upon leaving the premises. All beings, herein are liable to search. Resistance to seizure will result in forcible removal therein of both the weapon in question as well as the individual—who will then be regarded as an unauthorized trespasser. At which time, deadly force is authorized."

I roll my eyes at yet another warning I'm subjugated to hear and reluctantly hand over my stash of weapons; quickly signaling for Brittany and Santana to do the same.

When I see Rachel start to take off the AMF arm guards I snap a sharp look in hopes that she'll stop. She does so immediately when our eyes meet. Her hands stilling on the wrist ties before they become fully undone. I quickly look back to the guards to ensure we aren't being watched. Then tilt my head slightly to the side and subtly shake it side to side. I won't allow her to offer up her only form of defense. They won't suspect any threat. Especially from a girl like Rachel. And I highly doubt they even know what an AMF bow is, or if they do, they'd most likely heard about it from stories and tales. And would most likely regard it's existence as that of a legend considering its rarity. Let's just say, there are more practical reasons for why it is doubly named The Ghost. For all they know, it doesn't really exist. And I'm not risking Rachel's safety just so they can find out—not until it's absolutely necessary.

Her eyes widen noticeably and her skin starts to pale. Good. So she understands what I'm asking of her. I'm so locked in the stare between us, I don't even realize I'd been patted down by one of the guards until he signals the all clear and moves to do the same to Rachel.

I know what kind of girl she is. I know this kind of thing is so out of her element that even faking it would be close to damn near impossible for the girl. All I ask, dear God, for just this once, please let Rachel Berry pull through.

The brute continues to pat her down as I watch with the most discomfiting of feelings settling deep down in the pit of my stomach. And it's funny...for some reason, I get the feeling it has absolutely nothing to do with the worry of Rachel getting found out. I think I might be...jealous? Is that the word? I don't know, I'm not really familiar with that sort of thing. My choice in career has automatically spared me of any form of jealousy. Because if I want it, I've always just taken it.

But what would you call viscously wanting to break off another person's fingers one-by-one in the most inhumane way possible for even thinking of touching that which you subconsciously believe to be yours?

Defensive? Aggressive? Territorial?

I don't know. All I _do_ know is that dude better hurry up before I let myself go and turn those thoughts into a very grim reality. I wouldn't get to see Zizes. We'd never find Puck. And this guy could forget ever doing any activity that required hands—which wouldn't be very helpful to anyone of us in the end. I watch him until he is done and gives Rachel the all clear. He's lucky this time. But I never forget a face.

"You're all clear to go. If you'll follow me, I will take you to Zizes. Don't touch anything, don't stray away from the group, and we won't have any problems. Disregard these orders and I will personally see to it that corrective action is taken," the first guard disclaims hotly before turning away and walking off, expecting us to automatically follow.

And before I walk off to do just that, I feel a hand slip down my forearm until it embraces my own. I look to the side and see the shy, innocent gaze of my most treasured little diva. She is frightened—no doubt. But she is brave. And I couldn't be more proud of her in this moment if I tried. We don't have much time for sentimentality or any voiced reassurance, but somehow I know she needs something from me. I lock our fingers together and squeeze her hand tightly. Just holding it there in the small space between us just long enough to get the message across. Then I pull us both off right behind Brittany and Santana.

* * *

><p>"Quinnabeth! And her merry band of asswipes! What brings you to my side of the moon?" A loud voice reverberates across the room we've come to stop in.<p>

"I think you know why we're here, Zizes..." I come to stop not too far from where she sits and place my hands on my hips. A habit that is meant as a means for easy access to my gun that normally rests there, but is essentially useless now. Though there is still some comfort in the gesture nonetheless.

"Actually, I'm afraid I don't...care to fill me in?"

"Stop playing coy, we know you took Puck! And we want him back."

She sits on her throne with the constitution of an ox. And if I'm being honest, she's sort of built like one too. Built wide and sturdy, with the beady red eyes and all. As bad of a pun as it is, I can't help but wonder if it was such a good idea strolling into the bullpen so casually. Of course, it's easier to think these things when she's sitting there calmly as opposed to when she's scuffing her foot across the ground ready to charge. If I had any sense, I'd hide away the red cape and try to remain as neutral as possible to keep the bull from freaking out.

"Well you know what they say. Ask and you shall—GET THE FUCK UP OUT MY FACE! Comin up in here with that shit!" Steam very literally shoots from her nose. She leans forward in challenge to my willingness and strength.

That was IF I had any sense. Which isn't much my style in the face of a challenge.

"Come on, Zizes. I think you and I both know that I'm stupid enough to walk up in here and start shootin' the place up. Even if I didn't make it out alive, we both know how much damage I tend to leave behind," and even though I'm feeling testy, I keep the tone and volume to a minimum, "is this really worth all that to you?"

I may not have a lot of sense, but I'm not suicidal. All of this would only be worth it as long as we all make it out of here alive.

"He owes me a looooot of solar keeps, you know," she answers after a pause, speaking in a way that makes the blood boil beneath my skin, "Even if I did, supposedly, have him in my custody, you can't possibly believe I'd be willing to release him so easily."

"What does he owe? I'll pay it—just...give us Puck back."

"I don't think you could afford the price on his head, Fabray. Not even on your best day."

My head drops in defeat. I start looking along the tiled floors that are well-worn and covered with a light film of moss. This isn't the first time Puck's gone and done something stupid like this and got himself caught. And it's not the first time I've had to bail him out either. If I really think back on it, I'm pretty sure I've spent more money on rescuing Puck than anything else. So, why exactly am I doing this again? It doesn't seem like a very cost-effective way to run a money-making business.

If he'd had just remembered to take his fucking comm link like I told him to, maybe we wouldn't even be in this mess. I could've just tracked his comm link until we found him instead of being forced to make a rather expensive deal with the devil...or, at least...one of the devils out for Puck.

"I'll tell you what. Since you've acted so civilly while on my turf and since you asked real nicely," I look back up to her ask she speaks, her tone teasing with the slightest hint of hope, "I suppose you could do me a quick favor in exchange for your beloved Puckerman..."

"Go on...I'm listening..."

* * *

><p>Once outside the confines of Zizes' reserve, the moon's very atmosphere changed. The sky transformed into a rich green cluster of treetops and vines and other assorted plant life that had taken well to reclaim every last inch of the terrestrial body that it could. If the black skies of space even existed anymore, you wouldn't have been able to tell. The greenery did well to keep even the smallest of cracks from peaking through; thick splays of leaves and branches meshed together like a canopy overhead. Each plant around us almost very literally growing by the second even just to cover up the small trail of footprints our walking had left behind. We were sent into a jungle. A jungle that had every intention of staying as pure and natural as it always had before.<p>

Which is precisely why Zizes sent us on this mission in the first place.

She and her gang had been battling Cyra's natural wrath since the moment they set up shop here. A decision she admitted had been a huge mistake having cost her hundreds of thousands in a payload fraction. Comm towers, operations bases, broadcast towers, and all the roads in between were covered by the impenetrable plant life within weeks. It took almost all the man-power she had just to keep it from over-growing what little land she claimed for the reserve. And that wasn't even her biggest problem.

She went on to tell me that within the past couple of weeks, there had been some strange interference that would keep disrupting her comm link transmissions between her groundside goons and control—which inconveniently disrupted many of her important business deals. When she located the signal, it was traced back to one of her control towers that had been reclaimed by Cyra and all it's natural glory. Although she had no idea how or what exactly triggered this signal, she desperately needed it to stop—for the "sake of business" or some shit like that.

And it might seem strange—me volunteering so willingly to help her out and all after how much trouble she's caused me. Why'd she send us? Why not just send some of her own loyal followers? And most importantly, why the hell would we agree to such a thing?

Apparently, she has sent many of her own men and women to do the job on multiple occasions.

Not one of them have returned yet.

Which, seeing how fast the plant-life regrows, isn't hard to imagine why. Even if they had survived the determined fury of the plants, that could easily consume their very bodies, they still would have had to been able to navigate their way back through the abundant wild-life. And let me just say, trying to find your way back home through a landscape that is constantly changing...is not an easy feat by any means. Even the best of the best navigators would be lucky to find their way through. Everyone else, most likely starved to death or gave out in pure exhaustion, at which point the plant-life would have reclaimed what was left of that too. So naturally, Zizes turns to me for help.

Consider me "easily expendable."

This only leaves one last question. Why the hell would we agree to such a thing?

And that, has a pretty simple answer. One, I don't have just the best of the best of navigators. I have Brittany. I'd never bluff about counting on her skills. The best of the best doesn't even begin to describe it.

Two, I gave in and decided Puck was worth a small gamble. I'd be down a man without him, and I'm not real big on taking new applications and interviews and shit. I'd like to keep my crew the way it is until death. And as far as I know, Puck isn't dead yet. Besides, Zizes may have cleared the charges against him, but _she_ isn't the one he needs to worry about anymore. I've got more than just a bone to pick with our beloved Puckerman and when I'm done with him, he'll wish that Zizes had finished him off first.

"I don't understand why a few gambling debts have called for such harsh punishment," Rachel pipes up from beside me as I slice and dice through overhanging vines that have grown in the three seconds since Santana had chopped them in the lead before us, "I mean, you all gamble—whether it be your lives, or solar keeps, or some other corrupted business venture idea that seems worth the risk. So I can understand wanting to punish him, but killing him? It sort of seems the lesser evil when compared to all the other things you guys do."

"Now wait a minute. You can't just stereotype us all like that when, in fact, not all of us are the same," I respond promptly, with the slightest hint of flirtatious sarcasm dripping from my tone.

She stops and stares at me indignantly, with her head dropped to the side and one eyebrow raised in a challenge. But she forgot the number one rule of this wilderness. Don't stop. At all.

From the corner of my eye, I see a vine growing out towards her. Taking immediate action, I swivel in-between her and the plant and pull us both out of it's reach before quickly slicing it away with my trusty field knife. Her yelp of surprise is dainty and cute. A slight contrast to how I've come to see her lately. Especially in these past couple of days.

"Oh really? Please do educate me on the dissimilarities in the pirate community," she responds from her place in my arms, slightly out of breath. Her eyes bounce wildly between my lips and my heated stare. There's nothing I love more than looking into her beautiful eyes. And I wish she wouldn't flit them away from my own as often as she does.

However, this is not the time nor the place for this. There are rules in this jungle and our main mission is to survive. So I nudge her on in the direction of Brittany and Santana before continuing our witty banter.

"Okay. Well, there are five very different types of survivors in the savage community," I slice through some underbrush ahead of us, "The first survive by pure intellect and rely on their superior wit to stay alive, like Kurt," I cut away another vine as it sneaks close to our legs, "The second survive on pure brawn, and bull through everything in their path, like Santana and Puck," I push her forward rather harshly as a vine whips down between us with a loud thud, stepping across it quickly before it can resurface, "The third rely on business relations to strategically place a fictitious importance on their lives like Mercedes and Zizes," we're finally starting to gain ground on San and Britt, who is clicking away wildly on the Karjick pulse transceiver easily tracking our way, "The fourth survive just by dumb luck, like Brittany," I nudge Rachel along so that she's right on Santana's heals, "And the fifth...well the fifth type dominates by deceit...much like your beloved leader of the Coalition."

This jungle's a pain in the ass, but it's not as bad as everyone makes it out to be.

"But that would imply the leader of universal law is no better than a savage...I thought we were talking about everyone in the blacklisted community, banished from civil acceptance by governmental rule."

"At the end of the day," I respond bitterly, darkened by the very thought, "what's the difference? They kill, lie, and cheat no less than we do. The Coalition is nothing more than a blacklisted community with dictated rules to make it easier to kill, lie, and cheat."

"Hmmm," she pretends to really think it over, tapping a well-manicured nail to her chin. And this cute little gesture alone lightens any darkness that so much as threatened to take over my mind, "It might be slanderous to admit this, but I suppose you have a point." It's so sexy when she sees things my way. For the past few hours of walking through this mess, the wild, foreign smells of the jungle had done well to keep my nasal receptors distracted. But suddenly, all I can smell is her. And that sweet flowery scent she gives off so well. It smells playful, dancing a path straight through the connectors, going right to my head. Encasing me in an affectionate type of security. Non-threatening in comparison to all the many wild smells that surround us. I'm reluctant to let it go. I've never felt as happy as I do now. In a dangerous forest filled with pissed of mutant plants.

"..so...which are you?"

I attempt, hesitantly, to clear my head of the oddly compassionate fog, "Excuse me?"

"Of the five types...what type are you?"

But I'm not able to clear it one hundred percent. Not as long as her lovely scent continues to perforate my highly tuned senses.

"Me?" I ask in a playfulness that matches the way I suddenly feel. I pull her as close to me as I can manage while trying to continue to keep up with San and Britt and whisper against her ear, "Hunny, I'm all of the above..."

According to the old English system of time units, a moment is considered to be one and a half minutes. Which seems like an eternity compared to how fast this one just ended.

"Piece of shit!" Santana calls out angrily, beating the device in Brittany's hand.

Those lying bastards.

The transceiver squeals wildly in protest, getting louder with each new step we take deeper into the wild.

"Brit, status report!"

"I'm not sure, cap'n. It's never done this before," she answers back in confusion, raptly fiddling with the device in her hands, "must be one heck of a signal to make the Karjick pulse go all FUBAR."

Rachel stops suddenly, "FUBAR?"

I push her along before me, not allowing her the luxury of rest.

"Fucked up beyond all recognition."

I ignore the shocked gasp at my language and turn all questioning back to Brittany. I only really need to make sure that nobody stops moving or we could end up FUBAR ourselves. "Okay then. So what are our alternative options? Is there not a way to jury rig it? Make it ignore the signal?"

"Negatory, good buddy. Even if I did, the signal's what I've been tracking this whole time. Without that, I've really got nothing else to go by," she says sadly, switching off the transceiver to put a stop to its dreadful high pitch squeals of protest, "Looks like it's by guess and by God from here on out..."

"Tae!" My head starts to ache from the amount of pressure building inside as I sort through multiple strategies and the outcomes of each. Each one looking more and more bleak than the last. Tae, tae, tae!

I need just one fucking second to stop and think. A moment of rest to get my thoughts together so that I make the decision that doesn't end up killing us. But a moment is all the time it'd take for exactly that to happen if we did. Fucking Zizes! Fucking man-eating jungle!

Fucking Puck!

"Or..." Brittany runs into the back of Santana, who stopped suddenly. Rachel runs into the back of Brittany. And I run into the back of Rachel—not too happy that, by doing so, my second in command has put us maybe only a moment away from that life-ending moment.

But as I look at Rachel, to make sure I didn't hurt her, I follow her bewildered stare up to a giant moss-covered steel wall. It could have almost been mistaken for a tree had you been delirious enough to not notice the slight glimmery patches that sometimes leaked through.

Santana's voice floats over to my ears as if she too were caught up in the same bewildered stare, "Maybe we're just closer than we think..."

* * *

><p>"Push the fucking door, San—"<p>

"I AM PUSHING THE FUCKING DOOR, GODDAMMIT!"

We both strain ourselves against the rusted metal automatic doors with everything we've got left in us. Not to be one of "those" people or anything, but...it's times like these I wonder how anybody lived with manual technology. This shit's a drag.

"Here," Rachel pipes up from where she had been watching from behind, pulling lightly at my shoulders to get me to back off the piece of shit door, "let me try."

San and I back off to give her space to do whatever she thinks she's about to do. I can't speak for S, but I could use a break right about now...before we have to go at it again. And plus, if it makes Rach feel as if she's participating, then that's only a bonus for me. Because there's no way in hell Rachel Berry is going to get that fucking door open.

I pop a squat on the ground next to a panting Latina. I'd noticed how the greenery failed to over-grow this small patch of land before the door of the building, and found it odd. But hadn't given it much thought otherwise considering how helpful it was given our current situation. My body's too grateful for the much needed rest to worry. If the vines aren't taking over this one little space, then that can only mean good for us, right? Especially with my ribs in the condition they are in.

I still haven't felt any pain from my earlier beating. The medicine's holding out pretty damn good, in light of such heavy activity. But even I'm not dumb enough to believe that will hold back the pain for forever. And I dread the moment it hits me full force because I know it's going to hurt with a vengeance after all I've done today. At the same time, worrying about it isn't going to make it any better either. So I am much more thankful for the opportunity to rest than anybody else here.

And then there's my beautiful little diva.

I watch curiously as she digs around the little satchel full of gear that she had packed herself for the day. She pulls out a flathead sonic-screwdriver and a small mallet that looked as if it were custom made for her petite frame to be able to easily use. My head cocks to the side of its own accord as she starts to tap along the thin seem in-between the two automatic doors. And only then do I realize that Rachel is about to try and open determinedly shut metal doors with nothing but a tiny sonic-screwdriver and a rubber mini-mallet. I lift my hand to protest, "Babe, you can't just—"

But my protest dies weakly in the air as she silences me, pressing her ear up against the mossy metal and tapping her way lightly along the crack. I do as she wishes and hold back any further interruption. I don't know what the hell she's listening for and I honestly don't care as long as I continue to get a little entertainment out of it. I'm sure there's something I could say to the little hopeless diva, but the minute she bends down along to listen closer to the bottom of the seam, anything I might say becomes all the more diluted.

The fabric of her cute little ruffled skirt shapes perfectly around the swell of her ass. It's mid-thigh length rising higher and higher up the backs of her blessed thighs the more she bends forward. I lick my drying lips.

I know the power those thighs are capable of. I wish I knew how such power might feel wrapped around my head. I'd imagine she could probably crush my head with one squeeze if she really wanted to, like a nut in a nutcracker. I wish I weren't as well studied in the anatomy of Rachel Berry as I've become these past couple of months. It's beginning to drive me insane. Far past the normal levels that come with being a full time pirate. And unlike anyone or anything has ever been capable of before.

The deep, dark depths of the dangerous, territorial Cyra jungle may be a big concern to Zizes and her operations. But it's the very least of mine. Of that, I'm sure.

Rachel squats down low, causing her legs, thighs and everything else to disappear beneath the small overhang of the skirt. I curse the fact that something so short can simultaneously be so long as I'm snapped from my lustful stupor. With a sigh at the loss, I jump to my feet and move around to get a better view of what exactly she's doing. It seems as if now she's finally going to do something other than tease me. This ought to be good.

She carefully places the head of the sonic-screwdriver in the crack of the doors and taps the butt of the handle with the mallet three times. Next, stands and positions the head of the sonic-screwdriver into the crack more towards the center of the entire door. Then again, bangs her mallet to the butt of the handle three times and stands back to view the results.

…nothing happens.

Her mouth twists up in confusion though her eyes carry the slightest hint of mirth.

...still nothing happens.

I step towards her mercifully and dutifully understanding that, while her attempt was a pathetic one, I'm still obligated to encourage her for her try. But before I can wrap her up in my arms, she steps forward and slams her fist hotly against one side of the door. The sound of it ringing out loudly carrying through the echo of the trees. The sudden action startles me...slightly. But not as much as what happens next.

...the doors slide open with an even louder POP!

Rachel steps off to the side, allowing us to enter first, smiling wildly ear to ear.

"Fuck you, Berry," Santana says softly as she steps past.

"Sanny, be nice," Brittany warns, stepping in behind the angry Latina.

Finally, it's my turn.

"Please, God, don't you ever stop being so unpredictably amazing."

The words are far from hushed and I'd never intended them to be. It's enough to bring a burning blush to her olive-colored cheeks and she lowers her head to hide it from my view. But I won't have any of that. There have been enough interruptions today. I think we can afford one single moment to ourselves.

I grip her chin, and lift her head until her eyes meet mine. And in one solid sweep, I press my lips to hers in a sweet, short kiss. One of those kisses that were meant to be carried out that way. That end up being one of the few most passionate kisses you've ever had. I take a deep breath as I pull away and it feels as if I'm pulling her breath away with me. Her eyes shut weakly and her forehead falls forward to rest against my own. And judging by the way she's holding me now, I'm beginning to think maybe I've taken more from the girl than I should have. She just smiles sweetly and then steps off away from me to follow my crew inside.

There's a glaring blue light beaming from a room somewhere off in the distance. I follow the hue to a room where Santana is hovered over Brittany who is clicking away at what is safe to assume is one of Zizes control mainframes. It does seem odd that the computer would be activated randomly, especially given the current harsh environment. There's no way of telling for sure, but this does seem a likely cause of the disrupted signals.

"What we got here, Brit?" I ask, leaning on the back of the old ratty seat which she currently occupies as she continues to click away. Another red 'accessed denied' message flashes across the screen.

"I don't know, Q. Security's pretty tight. I can't access the core mainframe. But if you give me a minute to play around with it, I may be able to hack in," she responds, eyes glued to the screen before her.

I pat Brittany on the shoulder before turning around towards Rachel. She's curiously looking over all the gadgets and controls in the room. Her unavoidable curiosity for all things brings an involuntary smile to my lips.

However, the smell of working gears and oil quickly snaps all my senses to a state of alert.

Santana's head snaps up as well, eyes widened with the same wakeful state.

"Do you hear that?" She says, cautiously reaching for the gun at her waist.

"No," I respond, "but I definitely smell it."

I pull the Rook from it's holster, excited that it might finally see some action. I look to Santana and motion for her to follow me. Then look to Rachel and motion for her to stay behind with Brittany. Again—I can never say it enough—I won't take any chances when it comes to the girl, until I absolutely have to.

San and I move out around the corner into the hallway, guns raised and ready for fire. So far, so clear. We remain vigilant. Eyes sharp for any unwanted movement that may lurk about the vicinity.

In less than an instant, a laser shoots nearly two inches before my nose.

"San, we got fire!" I call to my second in command.

"PANIC STATIONS!" I call loud enough for everyone to hear, before quickly dodging another laser shot in my direction.

As I duck to the floor, I soon realize there isn't any adequate cover. Not where I lay on the floor, fighting to cover my head from laser fire and not from where Santana lays trying to cover her own. And as much as I'd like to keep this exact kind of thing away from Rachel, I know our only chance of protection lies back a few feet down the hall.

"San! Fall back!" I order and start to crawl back the way we came.

We both make it to a sturdy wall that takes the majority of laser damage meant for us. Can't quite speak for the Latina, but I'm sure as hell happy I have the opportunity to gather myself for a moment in the face of certain death.

"So glad to see you could make it," I say cockily to San in the brief moment we have to catch our breath.

"Well you know me, boss...never one to miss a party," she replies with a smile; holding her gun up next to her devious white smile so that the gun metal glistens against the shine of her teeth.

All it takes is a nod. One nod, and it is on. Whatever's shooting at us best prepare for hell. Because it's more than coming that way.

I don't expect our fire to hold this thing back forever. It's packing laser energy, for Christ's sake. It's more likely to hold out much longer than we can when it comes to ammo capacity. I'm mostly just hoping we can hold it off long enough for Britt to stop the damn signal and my big plan after that was to bolt. As fast as our fucking feet can carry us out.

I'm seriously tired of the fucking woods. I've never been the "camping" kinda girl, and this is pushing my nature tolerance to the limit as it is. So, San and I fire off shot after shot in attempt to keep this new rival at bay. And for the moment, it seems like a well formulated plan.

"So, Britt! Not to rush you or anything, but...how's it coming along with that signal?" I question in a holler around the corner. The "rush you" bit is obviously meant sarcastically.

"Oh, no! You're okay, Quinn. I don't mind you rushing..." she says innocently. This is the exact reason I feel it necessary to protect the blond. I feel like she'd get herself in a whole heap of trouble otherwise. "And I still can't hack into the mainframe...but the signal seems to be coming from an external hard drive!"

"Alright. Then remove the hard drive and let's bolt. As long as it stops the signal, we can just deliver that shit straight to Zizes doorstep and it can be her problem!"

"Okey-dokey Captain! Will do as soon as we can get it unjammed!"

This is just not my day, is it. Hell, what am I talking about? Everyday is not my day. Until the end of it when I have to forcibly make it my day. Today just won't be any different. Which would be a nice change right about now.

"Just try hard to go as fast as you can, B!"

"'Kay, will do!" her voice sounds strained, "Just as soon as I get this thing," there are clangs and clatters in the background that make it sound as if she were trying to wedge something loose, "unjammed from the stupid slot," this can't be good, "it's really in there tight, Q!"

I signal at Santana to cover me. I have to get to Brittany before she catastrophically ruins everything. There's no telling what's on that hard drive. The security seems to be super tight everywhere about this building, why wouldn't the hard drive responsible for interrupting comm transmissions have it's own form of security if removed. The Latina takes fire, pulling out a second .44 pistol. She understands as much as I do what kind of danger we very well may be facing. I run off to stop Brittany from pulling that drive.

The minute I come barreling around the corner, I see her on the floor doing exactly what I'd feared she'd been doing in the first place.

"Britt, no! You can't just try and pull it—" But I am too late. As soon as the hard drive slips from it's slot the entire building completely powers down,"Out."

Everything is still and quiet in the dark. I should have invested in neurosensitive eyesight as well. Even Ray-Ban mode has it's limits. I have to slip the goggles up to my head just for my eyes to even begin to adjust to the blackness that surrounds us. Having a good sniffer doesn't do me much good in the dark. Maybe I'm just too reliant on my eyesight still.

The computer went dark. The lights went dark. Even the lasers have stopped firing.

"Everyone okay!?" Santana calls out from somewhere in the shadows, most likely equally as perturbed as I am by the sudden stillness.

Then, the computer switches back on and safety lights light up the floors and ceilings all around us.

"Everything's just fine, Sanny," Brittany says from her spot at the computer screen. She's once again typing away at the keyboard. I guess she finally gained access.

I give the room a good once-over to assure everything truly is okay and don't see Rachel anywhere. I smell her, of course, and she isn't far but after what just happened, I'd like both senses to confirm her safety.

"Rachel!" I scream, following the lemony scent as best I can to where she might be. It causes my innards to become conflicted. Torn between joy and unstable fear. I just have to find her. I just have to—

"I'm right here!" A little voice calls out from down the hall. From the same direction lasers had been firing at us earlier. And I'm not comfortable with the thought of that at all.

"Rach? Babe, are you okay!?" I walk hastily down the hall towards the sound of her voice and the lure of her scent, but still unable to see her anywhere.

Until she pops up from behind what looks to be a tiny little robot. Well...that explains the laser fire.

It doesn't, however, explain the mischievous little diva standing behind it with various tools in hand and a wily little smirk across her pretty little face.

"Rachel..." I ask curiously, "what is that?" Upward inflection all about my tone.

The little bot suddenly jolts to life. A wonder of lights and colors, "Cognitively Hardwired Electronic Exchange Repository Inter-Operational Service Robot Zero-Zero-Four, at your service madam," the bot says to Rachel in an oddly old-world British accent, "But most of my previous masters have called me CHEERI-O or CHEERI-O SR-004—whichever you'd prefer. The SR-004 is more of a surname, really."

Right about that time, Santana comes around the corner.

"What the fuck is that thing!?" Santana screams, drawing her gun out before her ready to shoot once more. Which is reasonable, considering this thing was trying to fry us not too long ago. I feel a lot safer with at least her gun drawn on the offbeat little bot. By all means, Santana, do that crazy-stupid thing you do so well.

"Why...I am a service robot, madam. One of the best in the ind—" CHEERI-O stops mid sentence, gasping with a vitality that no little robot should really ever have in the first place, "Whatever you do...Don't. Move."

"What? Why?"

"You might. Scare it. Away." the bot continues speaking slowly and calculatingly. Keeping its life-like eye-dot...thingies on me unwaveringly.

"Scare what away CHEERI-O?" Rachel asks calmly. But the bot's eyes stay fixed on me. They have since the moment it stopped itself mid-sentence.

"Don't you realize who we are in the presence of here?" This is the only moment the robot breaks eye contact with me—to address Rachel. She shakes her head. It looks back to me, almost like it was making sure I was still there—or just to reference who it was speaking about. It's not entirely clear.

CHEERI-O then pulls Rachel off to the side to finish what is obviously meant to be a private conversation between the two. And when I say "off to the side," I mean literally two or three feet from where they had been standing only minutes ago. And as far as "private conversations" go, the robot isn't very good at decreasing voice levels when speaking. Maybe it just needs some more time to fully acclimate to its new lifestyle now that its finally awake from whatever weird sleep it was in before, I don't know. Regardless, the entire conversation can be heard by everyone in the hall. But the bot continues to look around suspiciously as he talks, completely unaware that we can still hear him.

"We stand before the most famous of what was only recently thought to be extinct," he half-whispers in a way you would much expect a robot with no volume perception to do. Rachel's eyebrows furrow in confusion. As does everybody else's, listening in to the strange little robot and his dilapidated ramblings.

"Enough with the vagueness soup can!" Santana calls out hotly from across the room, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

The peculiar little bot suddenly rushes towards me. I reach for my gun at my side, but don't get the chance to pull it. He falls down to the floor at my feet. I still rest my hand firmly on the handle, wary and unsure of this crazy machine's motives.

"The leader of the pride," CHEERI-O says into the floor where he still bows forward, "Genus: Filidae. Species: leo—latin for king. Previously recognized as: functionally extinct. Current status: critically endangered. Quickly! We must preserve it's existence. For the bounty of the bursary!"

"This bot's short of a few nuts and bolts," The Latina comments quietly as she comes up behind me to further inspect the curious little creature, who continues to lay prostrate before me. She ain't kiddin'.

"What did you do to him when you turned him back on?" I questioned Rachel.

"I didn't do anything! I just reverted him back to his original programming, that's all!"

"Huh..."

"He must've been originally created to be some kind of dedicated field research bot," the little brunette continues, examining the subject in question as he continues to babble on the floor in front of me, "and he seems to sincerely believe that he's still collecting pertinent data to that of the African male lion. I've never seen anything like this. How queer...how intriguing."

"Uh...okay...I can buy that...but uh...why is he bowing down before Quinn like that?" Santana asks the question that has been picking at both our brains.

"Well...Lions were commonly referred to as 'king of the beasts,' in that time..."

"Everyone! You must act as a part of it's pride! The accuracy of the data depends on it!" CHEERI-O calls out to the others. Rachel gives me a pointed look, as if she were about to state the obvious out loud just for the sake of saying it. I beg her with my eyes not to. To keep her mouth shut just this once.

"Well, I think you have your answer now," she says instead. And that is all that needs to be said out loud about the subject. The stupid little robot thinks I'm an African male lion, for Christ sakes. It's better if we just move on from this incident as soon as possible.

"So...I take it he's coming with us then?"

We start to walk away. The little bot follows loyally.

"It appears so."

"That's about to be one fucked up record."

"Yep."

"And we're not gonna let him publish it or anything?"

"Nooooo."

"Good."

"Quinn! Quick, come here!" Brittany calls from the front room where the computer terminal was, "You're gonna wanna hear this!"

We all rush off in her direction. Her face is upturned to a state of amusement. She holds out a pair of headphones and I take them and place them over my ears. She plays back a recording of some of the telecomm transmissions that had been interrupted by the signal. Now that she'd successfully removed the signal, the transmissions are full and complete, playing out through the headphones. And what I hear on the other end pisses me off to no end.

Fucking Zizes.

* * *

><p>"You lied to us Zizes!" I yell out into the great hall, after sufficiently bursting through the double doors with multiple guards in hot pursuit after me. But I am not a woman to be stopped right now. Not the one they want to fuck with. Which is probably the only reason I made it this far without being shot down...or warned with a thirty minute monologue about protocol blah blah blah.<p>

"Oh...you finally figured that out, did you?" She replies coyly from her pedestal. Though I don't find her bullshit quite as cute.

"After fighting off killer plants, walking non-stop for miles both to and from your derelict broadcast tower, and getting almost half mutilated by a fucked up robot—yeah, I'd say we caught on pretty quick," I remind her heatedly, letting the exhaustion of the day and slow-coming pain in my ribs get to me, "the only question now is why? Why'd you send us straight into a trap?"

"Why don't you go fuck yourself Q-ball."

"Oh my god!" Brittany cries out before I can interject, "You're, like, being so mean to us Lauren. We did what you wanted and we almost got hurt really badly, and now we still don't have Puck and I think I'm gonna cry..."

"Oh no..." suddenly things might be looking to be more in my favor. I'm a force to be reckoned with when I'm pissed, but...even worse has happened whenever Brittany cries.

"Stop with the bullshit guys," the threatening bull of a woman chortles, suddenly not as threatening as she'd like to constantly appear.

"I wouldn't make Brittany cry if I were you Zizes..." I felt an obligation to warn her. To make her aware of just how different this situation is to any other girl that's ever come crying to her before. Anyone deserves at least that. So she can never say I didn't warn her. And besides, it makes saying "I told you so" sound so much sweeter in the end.

"What? You really expect me to take that threat seriously? Crying!? Really?! What's so threatening about a pathetic little blond girl crying?"

"It's not the 'pathetic little blond girl' you should be afraid of," I hint, tilting my head in the direction of the girl standing fiercely beside her, "it's her hot-tempered Latina body guard you should be worried about."

And that's when Brittany starts crying. Unabridged and unashamedly, letting the tears ruin what little makeup she wears across her pretty face. If this were a person with a sole at all, just this sight alone would make them change their minds about whatever had caused the blond so much pain and suffering. But this is Zizes we're talking about. In her world, soles are for shoes and she wouldn't have known they could be used for another purpose otherwise. She does, however, respond well to the serious threat of danger. Especially when it comes to her life or the life and prosperity of her business on Cyra. Santana just happens to be that threat as she makes to charge, looking as if she were the one matador that could finally bring the bull down by its horns and then some. I catch her by the collar of her shirt before she gets too far though. Happy to let Zizes stew in the anticipation of "will she, won't she." Our eyes lock and I mentally dare her to see how far I can be pushed. The Latina fighting and clawing for release.

"Okay, okay! Stop with the fuckin' water works already, I'll tell you!" Brittany stops crying. Holding back the sobs with cute little chokes and hiccups. Zizes continues for sake of her reputation, "but only because you all are really startin' to bug me and I got shit I gotta do."

"Yea yea, cough it up Zizes. Why'd you do it!" Says Santana, who has realized by this point that she isn't going to be released and stands there in a huff with her arms across her chest and her foot tapping impatiently. I continue to hold onto the collar of her shirt, nonetheless. If Zizes dies, we'll never get answers. Just seems safer this way...for now. I get the feeling San understands that. Whatever her reason for doing so, she doesn't try to stop me from continuing to hold her back.

"Leverage. You guys wanted something bad enough to sacrifice your lives for it, and I needed someone willing to do so in order to shut down that signal and run my business. I used it to my advantage." With that said, she hops down from her seat and begins shoveling an assortment of items lain out on a table beside her into a bag.

"That's it! You fucking used us for fucking nothing!? We did all that shit for nothing!? Oh that's it Zizes, you've had it!" San loses it again and makes to move at the pompous business woman. Luckily I still have a good hold of her shirt or there's no telling what the crazed Latina would do. Even Brittany grabs a hold of one of the girl's arms to help hold her back. Probably because she saw how tight the collar was becoming around Santana's neck at her avid resistance and felt concerned that the angry brunette might choke herself out if she didn't calm down. Zizes finds this display amusing as she finishes her things to leave.

"So that's it! We do your dirty work for you, and we leave with nothing!? No pay? No Puck!?"

Zizes doesn't respond. She looks up at us, affording us one last smirk, shoulders her bag, and makes to leave as if she hadn't even heard us in the first place. And as she passes us, she stops briefly.

"I think maybe you found more than what you think..." she says mysteriously, eyeing the data track that I had been holding out for her to take.

She doesn't take it, however. She leaves us behind all the more confused. She only stops one more time on her way out, for one last statement and then she would be done with me and my crew. "Oh! And if you _do _find Puckerman, consider his debt paid. He doesn't have to sneak around here dressed up as a godawful looking woman. My way of saying thanks for the help."

"Yea, sure. Thanks," I reply. Not sure what to reply other than that really.

CHEERI-O bumps lightly against my leg, quietly observing the entire scene as it plays out, no doubt taking note of every minute detail along the way. He had been so quiet, I'd almost forgot he was there. And then I realized Zizes was actually going to leave...without the data disc and without the stupid robot. A tiny surge of panic rises within me. Then she calls out once more and replaces the panic with hope. Hope that the next thing out of her mouth is something along the lines of 'I forgot my creepy robot, thank you, have a nice day.'

"Oh, and..." but, who am I kidding, I've never been that lucky before. She says, "My guards are holding up your little friends at the gates back on Delphian..."

"Ah fuck! I completely forgot about them..." Santana curses, slapping a hand to her forehead. But not because she feels stupid for having forgotten, but more likely for the same reason my ribs start to ache at the memory of how they got that way. Having the butt of a gun bashed against your skull doesn't slip the mind as easily as you might think. Maybe everything that happened before it, and possibly some of what may have happened after it...but not the actual feeling of a blunt object beating you unconscious with a blow to your skull. That feeling seems to stick...well after it happens. Not to mention, the assholes that did it aren't the friendly bunch we'd hope them to be. There's more compassion in the killer mutant plants.

"You might wanna bolt as soon as you can," Zizes continues, "I got no problem detaining them, but I can't hold 'em forever. Do what you gotta do, but make it quick. In a couple more hours, I will give the order to let them go. If you're still here when I do...well then they are free to do with you what they wish when they catch you. Good luck!"

And with that, she's gone. Leaving us behind with her metaphorically sinking ship on Cyra, probably headed out to wherever her business might take her next. In a world where business is better. In a world that doesn't contain killer mutant plants and schizophrenic robots. And we...well, we've got...something—that I'm not sure what you might call it—but it's definitely something , which has got to be better than nothing and is significantly better than death...so far.

"Well shit. What's the plan now, boss?"

* * *

><p><strong>Quick Note: There is a small part where Quinn uses the word "Tae." it is the FilipinoTagalog word for "shit." Just in case you were wondering when you read it. **

**And that's all for today. I hope no one's too upset that it isn't edited with as much precision as I put into the previous chapters. I felt like I could get away with it when speaking in Quinn's POV because she isn't as quick to talk about emotions as Rachel's character. Let me know what you think. Where do you think this will go? Where do you want it to go? Your feedback means a lot. :)**


	9. I Won't Be No Runaway Cause I Won't Run

**I strongly believe that everyone's voice deserves to be heard. So, to the reader that privately contacted me to state (in summary) "that [this] story is crappy and should be removed from the site," of whom will remain unnamed because they refrained from dragging mine through the mud by not posting this in the reviews.  
><strong>

**...thank you. Really...thank you. :)**

**Now for the next chapter in this crappy story.**

**Rated C/F (for massive cuddles and super fluff) If that's not your kind of thing...well..you already have the page open...so why not just shut up and read it anyways? A little girl-on-girl cuddling never killed anyone. Except for those convicted of witchcraft in the late 17th century. Some witches were burned for that. So, maybe don't read if you're a witch. Otherwise, enjoy. :)**

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 7<strong>

**"I Won't Be No Runaway (Cause I Won't Run)"**

**Quinn's P.O.V**

I like pain. It's one of the few emotions I know and understand.

Think of it like the foundation for life: you came into this world in pain; your mother brought you into this world in pain; and in that moment when the doctor hands you over to her crying and screaming after hours of agonizing labor, and she looks down at you for the first time equally as tired and distressed, that pain is the very first emotional connection you ever have with another living being. Someone that is still a stranger to you, that you hadn't really had enough time to get to know well enough to form any other emotional bond with yet. Almost nothing is a real as that.

Now, I'm no masochist. I have no desire to inflict pain upon myself and for the most part would prefer not to actually feel it if I had any control over that type of thing. I don't need it. I don't need it because it makes me feel alive or real or reminds me that I can "feel" like most everyone else will tell you when asked why they like it so much.

I like it because it's one of the only emotions that makes me feel connected to other people. It can be physical. It can be emotional. But it's also broad enough that it doesn't matter if it's exclusively one or the other. Because in the end, the feeling is the same no matter how it presents itself.

"HOLY MOTHER OF JESUS CHRIST—FUCK YOU! FUCK! YOU!" I scream out as Santana and Rachel attempt to remove my shirt to attend to the throbbing soreness at my ribs from the wound that has suddenly come back with a vengeance.

I never said I liked the feeling of pain. It hurts. Jesus fucking Christ, it hurts a lot.

But looking into Rachel's eyes as she takes in the black and blue swollen massacre that is now my upper body—the swirl inside those deep dark pools that parallels the feeling in my side at even the gentlest touch of her fingertips—I just know we are feeling the same thing. And for however long my ribs continue to burn in pain (until the medicine is applied to take it all away again) and as long as that look stays in her eyes, we are connected to each other on a whole different level. For right now, at this one moment in time, I'm no longer a criminal pirate with a bad past and an even worse future. And she's no longer an innocent small town girl with dreams too big for her or anyone else to even imagine. Right now, Rachel Barbra Berry and I are the same.

I don't think I could be any more pleased to be in so much pain. Because if you'd asked me if it was worth it?

I'd almost be ashamed at how fast I'd say, "hell yeah."

The downside to pain (no matter how it presents itself) is that it can sometimes be agonizing enough to knock a person out cold. After all, it's rarely the initial blow that gets you. It's the resulting aftermath of that first hit that can mean the difference between "I'm fine" and "lights out." And I was riding on the tail-end of that train.

* * *

><p>"Where to now, Captain?"<p>

That's a good question. And everybody seems to be thinking it. Though Santana's the only one brave enough to ask out loud.

And sadly, I don't have an answer.

"I don't know, San. Just...give me a second to think, okay?"

It's not good enough. The Latina huffs and plops herself down in one of the nearby chairs. The minute she stops scowling is the minute I know I've come up with one. But for now, everything will continue to be a string of I-don't-knows and continued disappointment—to each of us, myself included.

I'm sitting shirtless in the sick bay on one of the operating tables. I had enough in me to make it to the cockpit and get us launched and far from Cyra, but as soon as we were in the clear (or at least far enough away to be considered a good head start), Rachel wouldn't hear it until I was...well...shirtless on the operating table in the med bay where she could once again tend to my wounds. And that is exactly where I woke up after I passed out.

Then again, it could have just been yet another opportunity for her to get me shirtless. Of which is becoming more and more frequent these days.

I've considered chiding her about it for the past fifteen minutes or so. Pleasure is my favorite thing to think about when I'm in pain—call me a romantic. But for whatever reason, now just doesn't seem like the right time.

I should be thinking about how to get us out of this mess. Thinking up all the places we could go that would offer as much safety as discretion, not just for the sake of my incomplete crew, but for the sake of myself too. For the sake of pulling myself back together, which at some point, I need to figure out how to do.

I take a sharp breath at the coolness of the gel-like substance as Rachel rubs it across the wounds that decorate my upper body. It's healing properties causing the ache to lessen upon contact with my skin. And it's funny how something as simple as a topical ointment can essentially make something—such as a brutal wound—just disappear in seconds. If only there were an ointment you could rub on real-life events to make them disappear too. Maybe then I'd be more level-headed and could come up with a better answer to Santana's question.

"You know where we gotta go, Q," Santana tries once more, but without the question. Determination laced strongly throughout her voice as she pursues her much desired answer.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I answer casually as Rachel rubs in the finishing touches to my ribs.

"Bullshit, Fabray! You know good and well what I'm talking about and you know it's our only option right now. The only place no one will ever think to find us."

For a moment I think about ignoring her. Pretending like she hadn't even brought it up at all. But I know Santana better than that. This won't be one of those conversations she'll just let go. Especially when she believes she's right, which is evident given her current tone of voice.

"Lopez, don't..." I try using her last name as if it makes me sound more serious and less personal. Putting that distance between the two to spare myself the rest. If I could get her to stop before she even begins, I could rid myself of the entire conversation; along with all the hassle that will undoubtedly go along with it in order to come out on the winning side. A place we both really like to be.

"No Captain, YOU don't! N'aefriel is the only chance we got this time and you know it! Stop being selfish and petty and just admit that already so we can get the fuck to safety!"

I flinch reflexively at the mention of that name. I'm almost enraged that she even had the balls to say it out loud. That name hasn't been spoken in my presence for at least seven cyclical years. And if I didn't need her in order to fly this ship, I would have killed her the minute the word slipped passed her lips.

And she knows that. But that doesn't piss me off nearly as much as the fact that she said it anyway. Like she can just take a swing at the beehive and expect not to get stung. Bee's don't immediately go straight for the kill, which would create the assumption that they don't plan to attack. When actually, they're deceptively conspiring amongst each other to do the one thing bees do best. Swarm. Which is very close to what I'm doing now. I only need to wait for the right time to storm in.

Classic Fabray style dictates I should veer from the expected path and throw my enemy for a loop. Until I'm ready to fight back—guns fully loaded. Because that method has always worked for me before.

"CHEERI-O?" The exact moment the words leave my lips, I know this choice in deflection was a huge mistake. The over-excited bot responds instantly to my call.

"Yes, my lord!"

What. The. Hell.

"Please don't call me that," I half sigh, half beg in confusion as to where the hell he'd even get the idea to start calling me that to begin with.

"As you wish."

I roll my eyes and continue what I'd begun before he distracted me from my original diversion, "While you're here, you might as well make yourself useful. Run a scan for alternative landing zones in sectors 15X, 7BX, and 5X."

"As you command, your Lordship." The little bot skimps off about his duty, oblivious to the fact he'd done anything wrong.

My head drops heavily to the palm of my hand. What is it about me that attracts such oddball characters? And why the hell do I allow them refuge on my ship?

A rustling noise off to the side stirs me from my thoughts, albeit slowly, like a mother to her child at the sound of yet another priceless family possession shattering to the ground. My fingers sink deeply into the skin at my cheeks, so that it tugs down against the pull of my face as my head rises. It makes my eyes water enough so that everyone and everything in the room is discernible through the thin glaze of watery mist.

And still, Santana's eyes burn into me from across the room. In a way that over powers my temporary blindness. Unmistakable and unremitting as it holds me hostage. Asking something of me that I know I can't give. Judging by the silence, everyone else is equally interested to find out more on the same subject as San. And by everyone, I specifically mean Rachel. She's the only one I really care about right now.

"What's so significant about N'aefriel?" The curious little diva asks much as is to be expected of her. Especially since I'd never mentioned the subject around her before. I've come to learn the one place Rachel loves to stick her nose is any place in which it doesn't belong. This would be no more a gold mine for her.

"It's my home planet," I say quietly, numb to my own confession, "It's where I'm from."

It's where both Brittany and I are from, to be exact. Though it never was much of a home. If I ever did have any good memories of the place, they were wiped out the moment my parents forced me to leave. Now it's nothing more than a representation of everything I am not. Everything I was supposed to be against who I turned out to be today. It is a place of judgement; of disparagement. Stuck in the ways of a lifestyle and religion that died out many years ago.

Home is a place where you are supposed to feel safe, secure, and more importantly, loved. That place is not a home. From the only memories I have left, it never was. It is my own personal hell and I can't go back—I won't.

Besides, I was sent away, excommunicated from that place. I don't think I'd be welcomed even if I wanted to go back.

I can feel my face stuck in a permanent scowl. And I think to myself how ugly it must look, regret rises within me at having made it that way with all my rough tugging and pulling. But faces aren't meant to be beautiful when ridden with pain. I don't want Rachel to see me like this. I know I can't smile—wouldn't even be able to give a half-hearted grin. But I do try to straighten out the downturn of my lips, to soften the angst-ridden look. At the very least I could try and be unreadable.

I try. And fail.

"I know you probably have some bitter feelings about where you're from," Rachel says softly, placing a warm delicate hand on my knee. I scoff flippantly, "and I know I don't know anything about your past and what happened to you growing up during your childhood. But if this is the only option for safety, then honey, we've got to take it. And I know that deep down, somewhere beneath all that resentment, you know that's true."

"You don't understand, Rachel. No one understands," I reply just as softly. Unable to actively berate the girl while she continues to show me such kindness and warmth. I wish for once, she'd say something cruel and vindictive enough to give me a good enough reason to pop her in the face. Though, even if she did, I still probably wouldn't, "Except maybe for Brittany."

The blond steps in when it's obvious I have nothing more to say. She struggles to describe our world in a way that won't make it sound as terrible as it is—which is quite the undertaking. "N'aefriel is a very...different place. The people there are...not like us. They wouldn't understand why we aren't like them and...if we went there, we would have to give up a lot of the things we're used to so that we don't upset them enough that we could stay. It's why Q and me left. We didn't fit in. Q takes it a little harder because her parents are the town elders and—"

"That's enough, Britt," I call out over her story. It doesn't stop her though. She quickly spits out the rest of what she'd intended to say.

"Her dad kinda kicked her out."

And there it was. Out there in the air for everyone to know and address. The catalyst for one more "why" after another "why" and yet another until the entire ball of secrets is unraveled to one straight-line answer. There's no turning back—no trying to keep everything together anymore, now that it's out there to pick apart. And nothing closes me up more.

Rachel's grip tightens on my knee. Her fingers visibly making creases in the fabric of my pants at how tight she squeezes.

The gesture is meant to be comforting and reassuring, but to me it feels constraining and suffocating. I need air. I need...

"CHEERI-O! What have you concluded?" Once again I try to deflect. It's the only move I've got in this tight of a bind.

"Sir, I think you should set course for N'aefriel."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No sir, indeed I am not," he starts pacing the floor before me in a manner as equally worrying as it is uncharacteristic of such a device, "I ran a probability scan of all locations with the coordinates you gave me, taking into consideration your current situation of course, and mathematically speaking, N'aefriel has the highest probability of security and the lowest probability of detection."

"That would be my luck. The one place in all of the universe that I can't stand to be is the only place they will never find me."

My head, once again, falls to my waiting hands. The spoken confession making my gut churn having come from my own mouth.

"Oh no, you've misunderstood me. There's still a possibility they will find you," I look up to the bot with feelings I can't even describe, "there's just the lowest probability."

And if my head could fall back down any lower, it would.

Fucking robot. I don't care about probabilities, possibilities, or whatever the fuck else is against me. I am NOT going to that godforsaken place, and I'll be damned if anyone makes me.

* * *

><p>Approximately four days and twenty-two hours later we're ground-side at Echo's Marr.<p>

How did we end up coming here? The easiest explanation is plain and simple: I'm damned. And this is obviously the kind of place "damned" people end up. Which makes a lot of sense when I think back on my childhood in N'aefriel. I was born of the damned, raised by the damned, and god dammit, no matter what I do or where I go, I can't escape it; I'm damned too. So it's really no wonder I ended up back here in the place damned over time and time again.

Given this predicament, I could sit here and re-evaluate my definition of the word "home," considering I actually fit in so well—I'm damned in the place that is damned, where all the damned people go. But that's not going to happen because this place is so much more like a prison: just because you end up in one, doesn't always mean you belong there.

The old wooden sign still stands guard at the entrance. The words only slightly faded from the last time I was here. Of course then, I was walking away from it and that makes the last memory I have a little different. That, and the town motto has changed—which is a regular tradition the townspeople partake in every few years or so. I guess to keep things as fresh as an out-dated town can.

It now reads, in faded white painted-on lettering:

_"Welcome to Echo's Marr, N'aefriel._  
><em>"Quisch conclustilae oralaque d'leodum."<em>

Stupid prigs and their stupid sayings.

"What does that mean?" Rachel asks quietly beside me, breaking me of my lamentations.

"It's Friellian, my native tongue—or at least what's left of it. It translates to mean 'who shut the mouths of lions,'" I explain briefly. I have no intention to get into the etymology of the phrase and she shows a great attempt not to ask. Even as her hands fidget wildly with pent up energy and her mind twirls behind the dark transparency of her eyes. She still doesn't ask. And I don't tell.

But maybe one day I will. One day I might be able to manage saying the words without letting them get to me. Because just the thought of saying them coils me up tight like a ball of twine inside. So, not today. Childhood battles are always the hardest to fight. I've been at a crossroads with mine long enough to know it isn't going to end here.

We walk in the dark of the night, through the only town in the universe that isn't lit up like a night club strip. The only light comes from CHEERI-O, touching only five feet before us; enough to see the dirt path we try to follow and nothing more. The few town structures and buildings that are there are shadowed by the night and the stars in a way that prickles at the hairs on my arm. There isn't anything remotely scary about this place. But the memories, overbearing in their presence, boil lightly beneath my skin—light and hauntingly, rising slowly from wherever I'd managed to keep them buried somewhere deep inside.

"I know you're bitter, Quinn. But you have to calm down and let it go," Rachel says softly. She's been getting really good at that—saying just the right thing at the right time without anything ever having to be said out loud.

"You don't know what you're talking about. I'm not bitter," my foot kicks a small rock hard enough that it makes a shattering sound against whatever it hits after it skids away.

"Say what you will, captain, but you ARE bitter," she says again, "and I do wish you'd trust me enough to tell me why."

She only calls me captain when she's sincerely frustrated with me for not doing what she wants. I guess I couldn't really expect to get off so easy when it comes to Rachel's curious nature.

"I am NOT bitter. And I wish YOU'd respect me enough not to push me into talking about something when there's nothing to talk about!" My voice raises in the quiet of the night.

"Fuck you, Quinn!" Her voice rises to the same level. My mouth drops slightly at her use of an expletive, especially since she decided to use one of the most meaningful of them all, "I'm getting sick and tired of this stupid tug-a-war game where one minute you pull me in and the next you push me away. You don't have to constantly protect me from everything—above all something as harmless as information! I'm a big girl. I've survived life just fine before you came along, and I will continue to with or without you there to protect me! So stop trying to be so anagogic all the damn time, and for just once, tell me the truth already!"

I would. If I knew what to even say. She asks for the truth, but I'm not so sure I know what that is anymore. I've been running from it for so long—it's buried somewhere so deep...I wouldn't even know where to start looking. And that's easy to say in my head—when I'm talking to myself as a person who's experienced it first hand. I know my heartaches. I understand my burdens because they're mine. I was there. I was affected by my past in a way that doesn't even need words to describe because feeling it was real enough to just know. But how the hell am I supposed to explain something like that to Rachel? And give her answers to some of those things I haven't even figured out for myself yet?

I stop and lean against a nearby building. Needing that extra support to hold up the sudden weight of my body that's connected to a soul twice as heavy. Then I kick the splintered wood as hard as I can. Frustrated that I have to lean on a fucking building in a town I hate. Frustrated that I need that support. Frustrated at just being frustrated all the time.

So I do what any frustrated person in my shoes would do after kicking a really solid wall without first thinking of how badly it would hurt. I slide down to the ground with my head in my hands, thinking about how badly my toes ache and greatly regretting my decision to do so; until I can fully work through the arising pain.

A small body slides down next to mine just as an annoyed grunt can be heard somewhere in the shadowy distance. However, there's nothing shadowy or obscure about the presence next to me, sending the sweet smell of summer rain my way. How could there be when she always shines so fucking bright everywhere she goes, no matter what.

That sweet scent of rain falls over me, washing away everything but this moment. It makes me want to hold her close and tell her she has nothing to be sorry for. Because I'm the broken one here. I'm the one who's damned. I don't know who's fault that is, but it certainly isn't hers. And I refuse to let her carry that burden.

"Why are we so good at that?" She breaks the silence. Just as I'm no longer able to handle feeling like a big fucking asshole.

"What?" I reply. Her hand falls softly on my shoulder. Pressing me to look at her as I speak.

"Doing—saying things that we always have to apologize for," her words are softer, like her touch. And even though it's dark outside, I can still see that glimmer of light shining brightly in her brown eyes.

"Have we always been this bad?"

"Since the day you stormed into my life," she says with a sigh.

"I thought I was very charming when we first met," I try to sound serious, but that hint of playfulness slips through. Lightening both our moods.

"Yeah. You're about as charming as a bowl of cereal," she chortles, picking at some of the dirt before her. But an adorable little smirk sits perched on her mouth, synonymously playful.

I pretend to be offended, happy just to be back in what has become normal banter between the two of us. "I hope you're talking about the lucky charms kind. Because, as I remember, those little marshmallows have been the childhood favorite since ancient times."

"Yeah...more like the off-brand kind. That tastes like cardboard and gets soggy before you can even add milk," she plays right back. And that's the thing that always surprises me about the tiny brunette. How something that can be so delicate and fragile one minute, can bounce back so quickly the next.

"Hey! I sang to you! That's like, as charming as charm gets. Those stupid-ass fairytale princes ain't got nothin' on me."

"Oh please, Quinn. You were flat half the time, your guitar was hardly in tune, and you lost the proper rhythm halfway through the song—don't think I didn't notice. That's hardly a swoon-worthy feat," I chuckle at the girl. I love when she goes all self-centered on me, it's really cute...sometimes, "Oh! And did you forget about the part where you kidnapped me, took me from my home, and kept me as your prisoner."

She's getting testy again.

Almost anything is easier to get into than out of. This is most true for arguments. But I don't want to go back down that road with her. Especially when I still feel like a huge dick about everything I've put her through so far. So I will try as hard as I can to get out of the whirlwinds that are our arguments.

"You didn't do too well as a prisoner, princess," I remind her just as playfully as before. She stops herself, and for the briefest moments, we just sit there looking into one another's eyes.

"If your lesbian twat-squat bullshit is over, I'd kinda like to get this over with while there's still night time left to sleep," Santana huffs in the distance. Annoyed at our cute repartee even though it remains visibly hidden by the night time darkness. I don't blame her really. A few months ago, this kind of thing would have had me feeling the same way. But here, with Rachel. God, with Rachel, nothing has ever felt so right. So natural—I can't even tell when I'm doing it.

I pull the diva from the ground and just before we begin walking again, I whisper against the shell of her ear, "one day, beautiful. I'll tell you everything you want to know."

The tight squeeze to my hand lets me know that's enough for her. For now, a promise will do.

Before I know it, we are stopped before a large wooden door. Lights flicker on behind the shaded windows, alongside a murmur of voices, growing louder with each light that is switched on.

The door opens. And all the light trapped inside escapes into the black blanket of the night around where we stand.

A squeal of some emotion I cannot place rings out loudly past my ears, disrupting the quiet sleepiness of the surrounding buildings. Lights begin flickering on one by one from each of the houses around us. Animals cry in distress with the grumbles of dissatisfied owners waning through the background. A grand entrance that has awarded such bounds of attention, Rachel should be proud. But it's the kind of attention that causes you to burrow deeper into your coat and step further behind the nearest object to hide yourself from view. It's not the kind anyone purposely wants to be the center of. And that's exactly what she does—me being her blocking object. I can't say I wouldn't like to do the same. But the beast standing on the other side of the threshold is my own burden. And I know I have no option but to face it head on.

"Hi, mom."

* * *

><p>I look to my mother; who sits alone on a love-seat opposite me with a tight lip in her usual prim and proper posture. She stares blatantly past me at Rachel who is by my side. Santana's fingers drum against something (possibly her thigh) somewhere from behind me. Her way of trying to break the awkward tension of this moment that isn't working quite like she hoped it would. But no one says anything. Only Santana's fingers keep any audible beat to this uncomfortable exchange.<p>

We've been sitting here like this, in the living room of my childhood home, for awhile now. I honestly don't have a clue how long. Until Rachel shifts uncomfortably beside me, scooting closer under the weight of my mother's scrutiny—or for whatever reason that woman's been keeping such an intense focus solely on the brunette. An oddity that has kept my own focus solely on my mother.

Someone coughs in the background. Mom snaps out of her daze.

"Well. How about I make you girls and your..." she says looking to CHEERI-O, unsure what to call him, "...metal friend some tea?"

"He's a robot, mom. You can call him a robot," I respond in a huff already annoyed at the pretentiousness, "And we didn't come here for tea, we came for your help."

"Nonsense, Quinnie!" She scoffs lightly, flipping her hand at me and shaking her head in disagreement, "There is no one necessary occasion for tea. It is a cure-all for many and most things and thereby is a necessity for those in need of help."

She zips off to the kitchen before I can protest further, and I'm left behind with my crew and troubles.

My eyes sweep once or twice over Rachel, looking for any reason why my mother might react the way she did. When I notice the jacket bundling the little diva, with her arms—that are too short for the sleeves—wrapped tightly around each of her own sides. It's the jacket she took from me the morning after our "wild night" together, with my name and emblem sewn boldly into the front pocket. I never did get it back. Didn't really even notice she still had it until now. Now that it's a potential suspect for my mother's odd behavior. I think it might be my new favorite jacket.

I'm a little surprised Rachel even decided to wear it. It's not like I didn't blow enough money on her back on Delphian. I know she has other jackets. Maybe she just didn't think about it either.

I like seeing her wear it, though. And if it happens to be the reason why my mother is acting so flustered and off-kilter, then I like it even more for that reason.

Mom returns with six cups of tea, handing one to each of us—even CHEERI-O, who analyzes it curiously, examining the cup and it's mysterious contents from every angle. Who the hell gives a robot tea? Oh yeah, that's right. My mother. My mother gives a robot tea. And she's the only one in the entire universe that would.

Whatever. As long as he doesn't try to drink it and fry his circuits—or worse, fry any of us with the adverse reaction frying his circuits would cause.

I don't even give it a second glance when she offers me a cup and place it on the coffee table in front of me.

She isn't eager to get back to her staring of Rachel, but there isn't a hint of hesitation as she does. This time she can sort of hide it behind a tea cup every time she goes to take a drink. Of which she does more than any normal person drinking tea.

"Mother," I state harshly somewhere in her seventeenth sip. She jumps a little at the intrusion of my voice, the teacup clinging in protest against its saucer. The warning in my voice enough to make her put it down on the coffee table beside my full one. "As I said before, we didn't come here to exchange pleasantries. I only wanted to warn you that we were in town and ask if it was okay if we stayed here for awhile."

"Well of course it is, dear!" she responds enthusiastically, acting shocked as if she couldn't understand why I'd even feel the need to ask. "You're more than welcome to stay for as long as you need. You know that! Are you in some kind of trouble?"

For the briefest of moments I actually believe she is sincerely concerned.

"No. Well—yes. I mean—only a little. I wouldn't really call it 'trouble' per say..."

"You know how your father feels about it."

Of course I do. How could anyone not know how he feels about anything he dubs worthy of feeling anything about—much less all those feelings he has about family and his repudiated daughter. I'm sure the whole town knows how he feels about it.

"Speaking of the devil, where is he?"

"He is out of town on business for the while, but he should be back some time in the next few days," she responds matter of factly. Which means, in no specific terms, that I should take this as a warning, "But as I said, we won't mind you staying, as long as you tell me what's going on. That seems fair enough, doesn't it?"

I hate when she asks me a question like that. In that passive aggressive way that makes it seem as if the decision is really up to me. So in the end, no matter how I respond, I'm the one who is ultimately responsible for what is fair and unfair. You know, in case it turns out to be the wrong decision to make. No one can ever label Judy as being unfair. Heavens no! Not when she pawned the decision off on you at the last minute. And at the same time she still has complete control over the decision being made.

"This isn't about what's 'fair' and 'unfair,' mother. If you want to go there, then I would be more than happy to pull out a long list that I'm almost positive you do not want to get into right now," she buttons her lip immediately in that way that tightens her mouth; so that her lips pull at the lines of her face, showing her true age that would have been unrecognizable before. I take a deep breath. Drawing in complacency so this conversation can end. I don't want to fight with her. I don't want to argue. It's far too late for that shit. "Look, mom, I don't want to get into this tonight. I have no problem telling you, but can't we just save it for the morning?"

She keeps her jaw held high, so that the flaring of her nostrils becomes more noticeable from the angle her head is upheld. She does that when she feels knocked down. She always has this need to feel as if she's higher than everyone else. But she would never verbally allude to it or demand it in any way like my father. She's far too passive for that, though it shows just as effectively as if she were more aggressive like him. I guess that's what makes them so perfect for each other. To peas in a fucked up, judgmental pod.

"I suppose we can," she says with only a hint if disdain. She doesn't like to admit she's wrong either. I half expect her to go off on a rant to cover her tracks, fluffing herself up to look like the good guy in this instead of the antagonizing bitch she's displaying to everyone now. "Where are you staying?"

It is said in the same pious tone. Making it more of a formality than an actual show of concern. There's the Judy I know.

"My ship is parked a few miles outside of town in one of the empty fields. We should be fine there for the duration of our stay. Though we may need to restock in the market before we go," I surprise myself at how calm I stay in the rush of forgotten memories welling up inside me. I stand to leave—my crew following my actions—ready to end this undesirable reunion, "Anyways, we didn't mean to intrude on your night, Judy. We'll see you in the morning."

Her face drops in an instant. The mask of the Judy I know falling humbly to the floor somewhere at her feet. The remorseful hue in her eyes keeps me from moving. Paralyzing me with curiosity at such a foreign intrusion.

In another instant, the switch is flipped and I don't know what to believe.

"Nonsense," she says. Head held high once more, even as she bends to collect the group of tea cups, "You will stay here."

Ha! Who would've guessed Judy was capable of [unintentional] humor.

"You don't have enough room for us here, mom," I respond, unable to hide my smirk. From what I know, it shouldn't feel this good to intentionally deny my mother's request. That should have been beaten out of me during childhood. But it does.

"Of course we do! There's your old room, this couch," she trails off, still busy collecting teacups and putting the room back together as it was.

"My bed only holds two and there's no way we could fit more than one of us on this couch," I protest.

It takes her a minute. But eventually she says it, and I never thought she would.

"Someone can have Frannie's old room."

It's spoken so quietly, I have to strain just to hear. But there's no doubt it'd been said. She walks off to the kitchen before I can answer, a mess of teacups in hand.

I haven't heard my mother so much as utter my sister's name in a long time. Longer than I can remember, really. Not since the accident. A story too long to tell. Definitely not a good night time story.  
>I don't think anyone has even been in that room since then. My mother would never have such a thing. Defending the memory of my sister fiercely at even the recommendation of it, as if, by doing so, she could preserve what was left of Fran's ghost, in case she had been the last one to have ever been in that room. My mother could hold onto her for just a little longer.<p>

The golden rule of this house always being, 'we don't even pretend to think about going in there.'

Probably the only rule I've ever followed to the letter, terrified of what my mother might do if I broke it. And as much as I like to antagonize the woman, I know better than to get in-between a grieving mother and her long lost child. There is no wrath greater.

For her to even offer...she must really want me to stay. And, for once, I'm really starting to believe that.

When my mother walks back into the room, with her head down, eyes to the floor, that is the moment I know I won't be able to say no. When she's not acting like the Judy I know and grew up with, she's almost human. And when she acts almost human, it's just too hard to go against her.

I look to Santana. I'm almost sure see can see this in my eyes.

"Welp! Britt 'n me call Quinn's room!" My second in command calls out, dragging the willing blond off in that direction.

They both know about Fran. Britt was there for me when it happened. And Santana found out sometime after we met in academy. So it isn't surprising that they would jump at the chance to not have to sleep in there. Really, I don't blame them. Sleeping in that room would be unsettling.

"Rachel, you can have Fran's room. I'll take the couch," I say. Mom runs off, mumbling something about getting fresh blankets, leaving us to our conversation.

"No, I couldn't possibly—I don't want to be the one that kicks you out of a proper bed. I'm the guest. I really don't mind the couch," she responds, touching my arm lightly. The gentle action always makes me snap my head up to stare straight into her eyes as if they were calling me to do so. And the minute they connect, they grip me like a vice and scramble my brain to a mess of thoughts and images. I wonder if she knows what that gesture does to me. And if she does it simply because of the reaction it illicits.

"Stop that, princess. I'm taking the couch and that's all there is to it."

She gives me a hesitant smile and turns away to follow my mother to Fran's old room.

She's been oddly submissive all of a sudden and I don't know why. It isn't like her at all. She loves to fight me on damn near everything for as long as she possibly can.

I turn off the light, kick off my boots and snuggle in to the makeshift bed mom made for me on the couch. I sigh wearily at my feet that hang over the arm because of my long legs. Maybe I should have taken Rachel up on her offer of Frannie's room after all. Then mom's voice floats over to me somewhere through the darkness.

"I don't mind you and your...friends staying here, but we WILL talk about this in the morning."

Finally, I am left to the darkness. And my overly extended legs.

* * *

><p>With the lights out, it's almost unreal how dark it becomes. The room (and everything else that surrounds it) is completely void of light, reminding me of space. Only here it's void of any technology or modern day devices. And so much more uncomfortable.<p>

Okay, I can't say "no technology." They do have electricity and running water throughout the town. They don't live like total barbarians—no matter how bad my memories may run. It's just very base technology and engineering; a little dabbling in hydroelectricity, wind, and solar power. Although, to the rest of the universe, these practices are as good as barbaric. Most people only knowing them from grade school physics and history classes where it's easier to teach those principal ideas as a foundation for the more complex structures of today's energy systems.

And now I know I'm never going to get to sleep. It's just too dark. And my mind won't shut off. It keeps jumping back to that pretty little Diva.

[Pretty little Diva] who was wearing my jacket.

Why is that such a turn on? What makes stuff like that so sexy?

Is it an ownership thing? Like something as stupid as a jacket somehow represents me because it's mine, and when she is wrapped up in it, she is thereby mine too. Or maybe it's a little more vain than that. Like the knowledge that she picked my jacket (out of every other jacket she owns) and wore it in public. Purposely. Because she wanted to. Because even physically being near me day-to-day still isn't damn near close enough. Even if it was subconscious, she wanted and needed to feel me around her—just as much as I wish to be around her.

I like that one better. There's nothing sexier than a girl that wants you. Except for maybe when a girl refuses to give you back your jacket. I'd let her keep it. She'd never even have to take it off. Especially if there were nothing underneath, I would—

Whoa! Whoa! Hold up there, Jethro! Not in your mother's house. That's the last thing you need is for her to have one more disapproving thing to hang over your head.

Let's go back to the hydroelectricity crap. To harness the energy from flowing water, the water must be controlled. Measuring fluids at rest indicates a force exists, acting as pressure on its surroundings. The pressure, measured in N/m^2, isn't constant throughout the body of fluid. Pressure in p increases with depth. And the upward force acts on the base. P=pgy.

Ah, fuck. I don't think this is working.

"Um...Quinn?" A small voice whispers through the darkness and my less than appropriate inner monologue.

"Yeah, Princess?"

"Are you still awake?"

Yep. Definitely not working.

"Yeah, Princess."

"Um..Can I—would it be okay if I sleep in here tonight?"

No.

"Yeah, sure."

Seconds later a warm body cuddles in close to mine beneath the sheets.

"I just—things haven't really been the same since I left home," she sounds tired, but restless at the same time, "I can't really sleep without patches by my side."

She snuggles in closer with a breathy whimper as comfort overtakes her. The only thing more inappropriate than my train of thought is the poor timing for all this to happen.

"Oh, no, that's okay. You're welcome to sleep with me—er—I mean...you can stay in here," I have to physically stop myself from face palming (I'm such a fucking idiot), "So...is patches your dog?"

Deflect. Deflect. Deflect.

"No," she sighs wistfully, "he's my dragon."

Okay, that's a pretty damn good distraction. Rachel fuck me if I'm right, but it sounded like she said dragon.

"I'm sorry, what? It sounded like you said dragon."

"Yes, I did," she sighs once again, I'm guessing in reminiscence. I, on the other hand, almost snap my neck in the awkward angle my head drops in to look at her, "oh, but not a real dragon! Patches is my favorite stuffed animal."

Okay, that's a little more believable. Although I can't help but feel mildly disappointed that she doesn't have an actual dragon. What a letdown.

"Oh, good...for a second there I thought I was going crazy. Then again, there's still the fact that you named your stuffed dragon patches."

"I was young and wanted a dog," she chuckles lightly, "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

She tucks her head under my chin and burrows into my neck, taking a deep breath. I clench my eyes shut at the sound of the sheets as they rustle, making me hyper-aware of her shift in position. Making me hyper-aware of her in general. Oh God. Back to this again. Why does deflecting suddenly not work anymore?

"You smell really good," she says slowly.

Her breathing starts to even out.

"Quinn?"

"Hm?" And oddly, my own quickly follows suit. As if, not only did she control my every thought, but as if she were in control of every one of my bodily functions as well. Or rather, my body had a mind of its own and chose to follow each of her moves just to feel that much closer to the one it desired most. Mimicking her actions to the 'T' in that desperation to keep us both in sync.

"Could you—would you mind singing?" She asks softly and rather shyly, "I mean—it just helps me fall asleep."

"Really princess? It's three in the morning, I haven't had time to warm up. It's gonna sound terrible. At least, it will by your high standards."

I didn't forget her earlier comments about my singing—and she said those when I actually tried. God knows what kind of criticism she'd have if I sang now. Not that it hurt my feelings or anything. I can take criticism. But at the same time, I'm not going to willingly do something for someone with the understanding that they won't like it in the end. Seems like a bug fat waste of time and energy. Plus, I'm starting to get a little tired myself. I probably wouldn't be able to keep my eyes open long enough to get through the first verse.

"Please."

I sigh in remittance. I couldn't deny her anything. "What would you have me sing?"

"I don't care. Anything," she pleads softly, nuzzling further into me.

"'Kay. But no critiquing."

"I'll be good, I promise," she says with a yawn, "I just want to hear you sing."

I spend a minute or two thinking it through, too tired to really pick out the perfect song. So I sing the first thing that comes to mind.

"Nobody knows the trouble I've seen  
>Nobody knows the sorrow—"<p>

"Quinn," she groans in protest. I chuckle lightly because it did sound really bad. Then I switch up to the second song that comes to mind, reminding me of our current situation. And sing the best I can at three in the morning.

"So much to write  
>So little time<br>How can I pinpoint our love  
>In just a few lines<br>I'll start with the first time we both kissed  
>The rain poured down<br>When we touched lips..."

"And I know it's late and  
>My voice is cracking<br>And I'm singing out of key  
>But you don't care about all these things<br>You just want me to  
>Sing you to sleep..."<p>

And as sleep finally overcomes me, becoming too burdensome to continue on, I hug the little sleeping brunette's body as close to mine as I possibly can, and think that this really is the best we ever came to being close to perfect. How true a song can turn out to be.

* * *

><p>I distinctly remember falling asleep with the brunette in my arms. As well as waking up multiple times in the night to make sure she was still there and that I wasn't smushing her to death on the tiny couch we shared through the night.<p>

But I wake up alone. To the overwhelming smell of pancakes, with the slightest hint of mint. The pancakes weren't really a surprise. Mom used to make them every morning—I guess she still does. The mint, however, catches my appeal and practically pulls me by the nose to follow it to it's owner. It stirs an aggressive longing inside me that I didn't think I'd ever be capable of feeling this early in the morning.

Both smells lead me to the kitchen, where I find both my mother and Rachel. Neither one is talking. Mom busies herself with cooking while Rachel sits at the breakfast table quietly staring at the cup of whatever drink she had been offered. And as I enter the room, interrupting the atmosphere, it's almost as if everyone was just waiting on me. And now that I am here, the morning can officially begin.

I grab a seat next to Rachel and loop an arm around her chair, pulling it closer to mine as I do. I recognize the smell of mint to be coming from her and it stirs a certain possessiveness in me that is easily sated by her closer proximity.

When my weird primal urge—that I still haven't really looked into, but probably should considering how much it makes me act out—is finally satisfied, reality sets in. This is the moment I'll have to explain everything. To both of them. They expect it and I have no choice but to follow through.

So I break the silence and start telling my story from the very beginning—for mom's sake. I explain how things took an unexpected turn for the worse and we ended up landing on Lima and meeting Rachel. Then I talked through the catastrophe that led to our apprehension of the small brunette. I even talked about my private meeting with Kurt and everything it revealed about Rachel and how both the Heretics and Coalition are now after her. All the way to Puck getting taken which led to our arrival here. All in front of a delicious stack of homemade pancakes.

"Why did you try to keep it from me," Rachel says quietly after I finish telling them everything I know. My natural reaction is to say, "what?" and act as if I don't know what she's talking about. But I know exactly what she's talking about.

The minute I mentioned the Heretics and Coalition and how they wanted to take her from me, she stopped eating and tensed up. And that same minty smell from before became almost violently abundant to my nasal receptors—almost making me cling to her like a life line and never let go. She was mine. They can't have her. No one can have her! She wouldn't want to go away with them even if she had a say in the matter. But she doesn't. Because I wouldn't let her go with anyone else anyways.

Instead, I shift closer uncomfortably in my seat and close my eyes. I have to turn down the level of my receptors or I won't be able to function much less answer either one of their questions. And even though I very well may be losing my mind in possession and a heightened sense of ownership, it's still indiscriminately clear what she's wanting to know. She wants to know why I didn't tell her about how the heretics and coalition are after her and everything I discussed with Kurt in my office. And I can tell she isn't happy about it.

"Because...I didn't have all the details yet. Kurt is a well-known gossip. And I didn't want to go blabbing off and getting you worried about something unless I was one hundred percent sure it would be a real issue. I just didn't have all the facts...I'm sorry," I say gently.

Mom watches us curiously from across the table. She hasn't had much to say throughout my recount of events and seems more interested in watching Rachel and I interact—like we were two animals in a zoo rather than two humans in the midst of a lover's quarrel.

Meanwhile, Rachel continues to radiate that overwhelming minty scent that is overpowering everything about me—even with my nasal receptors set to the lowest level that still allows breathing. I feel like a fucking animal. I can't focus on anything but her and the fact that I've upset her so. That, and the challenge this suddenly presents for me. But that would make me, what? Threatened by myself?

I'm the only factor in this equation. Kurt only warned me with information. I chose not to tell her, which is why she feels hurt. And since I seem to be the best at doing just that, no matter what decision I make, that means I'm the biggest threat to her and our relationship.

But wait—what exactly is our relationship—aside from captor and captive? And when the fuck did I start hugging her?

"Just...don't keep things from me anymore, okay?" She breathes out gently and that tutelary hold on me slowly starts to lessen. But not the grasp of her arms. They tighten around my ribs so tight that I squeak in pain. I like having that contact. Touching her and knowing she's there and touching back. I've never shared that with someone. I still wouldn't want to share that with someone other than her.

Which means, that whatever this thing is between us, it's important.

"I won't, Princess. I'm sorry," I reply softly into her shoulder, finally able to relax my own in her calm embrace.

The only thing that breaks the moment is the sound of a teacup shattering to the ground. I look up to my mother, who stands stock still a few feet away, making eye contact with everything in the room except for Rachel and me. Though it's presented as an accident, experience leads me to believe she did it purposely. As a way to distract us and free herself of her discomfort, just like her shifty affectations suggest. Accident or not, actions like this aren't customary for my mother in any case. She is the master of saving face and keeping herself together—or at least appearing as if she is always pieced together. So the reason why it happened isn't quite as shocking as the fact that it happened at all.

She doesn't immediately move to clean up the devastated mess. She only stands there stiffly looking from cabinet to table to chair to floor. I realize how embarrassing this must be for her. I don't sympathize with it, but I definitely acknowledge it. I'd always imagined that these kind of slip ups would cut her pride deep. Like if you were to cut her open, all of her insides would effortlessly slip from her body into a puddle of goo on the floor. Not that you'd ever get the chance to do that. The woman puts so much effort into detaining her insides from the world that it would be damn near impossible to ever find out what's inside—if she really even keeps anything locked up inside her to begin with. Because if she does actually feel things, the only reason she'd have to keep it locked up so tight, is fear. Fear that letting anybody else know of it would reveal her humanity and all the connoted imperfection the word alone holds. And, ideally, nobody on this planet wants to be a human; most of all, my mother.

"I don't care what you say, Little Bunny Foo Foo is not a pet name and I really wish you'd stop calling me that," Santana's loud obnoxious voice commands everyone's attention as she enters the room. Britt is hanging off her side and I drop my head to hide an impromptu smile, thankful for a deflection that isn't my own for once. Because FINALLY.

"Is too! I think it's cute," her blond counterpart chirps with the kind of energy that makes me well aware they've been up for awhile now. Doing God knows what. In my room. In my bed.

Happy feeling gone.

A gentle hand falls to my knee. Probably because she's thinking the same thing. And she can tell the kind of effect it has on me. Mainly since that odd feeling of possession still hasn't fully worn off yet. I turn to the diva with a less than satisfactory look. She smiles and nods her head slowly, giving my knee a tight squeeze before digging back in to her pancakes.

We keep giving each other these looks; what would appear like meaningful glances between knowing eyes. But I don't actively know what they mean. If someone asked me what one of her looks meant compared to another, I'd tell them how I didn't have the damnedest clue.

But sometimes a look doesn't have words. No verbal equivalent that can effectively communicate what certain looks do. Another person only has to give you a certain look and you respond automatically; as if they'd spoken in entire paragraphs. That just about sums up each and every similar moment between me and Rachel. I don't know what each look means or why she gives me one to begin with; and I don't want to. She gives and I respond—instinctually. Knowing what it is that she's trying to communicate enough to respond in a reciprocal manner, but nothing more than that. With that being as effective enough as it is. And that's just one more quirk in my and Rachel's weird connection.

I'll let it go for now because it feels right to do so. But only because I'm in no position to challenge someone. I'm sure the only reason I feel so confrontational is because of this weird possessiveness blanketing me. And I don't want to act on anything that will stir up more drama until I figure out what the hell it is. Or at least understand why I'm so on guard.

For now, I'll just scream internally while I sit in the middle of yet another stupid argument between Santana and Brittany—this time about god damn little bunny foo foo. Of which they continue to go on and on about.

"Really!? In the nursery rhyme, he hops through the forest repeatedly preying on and abusing innocent field mice...what's so cute about that?" Santana responds, plopping down in the open seat next to me.

The good thing is, at least my mother finally found the ability to clean up the mess she made earlier. It only took minutes of a pointless nursery rhyme debate, but whatever.

"That he's a bunny," Brittany says, placing a plate full of pancakes in front of Santana and then taking a seat beside her as well.

I look back to Rachel, who is smiling at the blond. And just seeing her smile, for any reason, is enough to put one back on my own face.

From across the kitchen, my mother scowls at the scowling Latina. She never did care too much for my second in command. And—being that she's known Brittany almost for as long as she's known me—she's never been too fond of the weird relationship the two have had. She certainly has no problem showing her distaste for Santana. Something like this wouldn't put her in any better of a mood. And it hasn't.

"Anyways, Quinnie," Judy's back. And her voice doesn't match her disposition as she wedges between the quarrelsome couple pretending to refill their teacups, "I think I know someone that could help you find Noah."

My head snaps up. Well...She has my attention.

"You know Mr. Evans—Sam's father? Well he owns a little shop in town and I'm almost sure he might have something there that could help you in your search. He's the closest thing to a technoneticist that we have here on N'aefriel. And Sam's doing really well for himself, about to take over the family business. You should at least stop by and say hello," she rambles, clearing out unfinished breakfast plates at everyone's protest, "to both of them."

She looks between Brittany and I as she speaks. So that I can't tell who she's actually talking to between the two of us.

I even catch the underlying meaning in her suggestion, and even then I'm not all too sure who it is meant for. Why would I give two shits about saying hi to Sam? Why would Brittany?

Sure, she dated him for like three weeks back when we were kids, but it wasn't ever really like that. And if the confused look on the blonde's face is anything to go by, I'd say she's on the same page.

"Adeline should be there," my mother adds off-handedly after awhile. And this time, when it comes to the newly addressed subject, I know she's talking to me, "She started working there a few years back, when Emily caught the fever and couldn't work to support the family anymore—God help her. She asked about you the other day, you know?"

Of course I should know. Because we're all supposed to keep tabs on our ex-girlfriends. Adi was my first serious girlfriend. That I left for academy. Which ended with her not being as serious to me as I was to her—obviously. It was a really messy break up. Then again, when it comes to two girls, when is it ever not?

It's a lot touchier a situation than Brittany and Sam—which is primarily why I'm so lost about why she'd want to even rehash that. I mean, I get the whole Santana's-an-asshole-that-shouldn't-be-with-anyone thing, but of all the possible replacements, Sam definitely wouldn't be my first choice—not even my hundredth.

Interesting move on mom's part. And yet highly dangerous. My shoulders tighten and tense, prepared for the oncoming fight. Immediately picking up on these deliberate actions, the blonde and Santana take this as their cue to leave—which they do silently. The way Judy looks at Rachel pisses me off almost more than the way she brought up Adi. And though it is short lived, I don't miss that indignant glance she gives the small diva—who either hadn't picked up on my cues or she has and refuses to leave regardless. But then I worry about how she's interpreting Judy's attention of her. Which is more likely to be the reason she stayed, given her infamous curiosity. And the look on Judy's face is undeniably obvious as to whom and what she's focused on.

"It's funny that you would even bring her up at all. Because from what I can remember, Judy," I say as I stand to leave, grabbing Rachel's hand in the process, "you didn't much like her either."

That would have made a really awesome exit line—like the ones you hear in the holo-movies that hit with such force when delivered that it just makes you say, "hell yeah, sock it to 'em!" It would have been an awesome exit line, had the main 'exiting of the room' part actually taken place. Because, admittedly, lines are only really powerful if you don't stick around for the aftermath. Otherwise, they're more like a slap in the face. To yourself. As if you enjoyed slapping yourself in the face repeatedly in front of people for extended periods of time.

I only recognized my love of public humiliating myself in this manner the moment the diva's face drops in some sudden realization. It's no secret the girl thinks almost as loud as she talks. In one dramatic pause, I can practically feel the cogs of her mind actively working to put two and two together.

I try tugging her along, but she pulls back by our conjoined hands. Refusing to follow, but at the same time, refusing to let go. The force of the light tug is enough to spin me around in her direction. So that we are face to face. As she stands there, with her eyebrow quirked and her mouth opened slightly in preparation for the onslaught of questions building on her tongue, it's then I know that I'm never going to get out of having this talk with the girl. I'm going to have to tell her everything, and I'm going to have to do it soon. I can't ask for more time to process or think it through—whether I know for myself or not. When it comes to ex-relationships...time is always up.

I still can't quite figure out how to start this conversation. And to a woman, that's as good as saying, "yeah. That's my ex-girlfriend, we were madly in love and actually still are!" Even though it's far—far from being even remotely close to the truth, I know, to her, that's what it looks like. I'm not fluent in the female exchange, but being one myself, am at the very least well-versed. There are just some looks a woman (in particular) gives that can't be mistaken for anything other than what they are. Looks that you don't need a special connection with a woman to automatically recognize and understand. And the look she's giving me now is equal parts disbelief and frustration.

Also, because I'm female, I know that the worst thing I could do right now is reach out for her. That ship has sailed. She already thinks what she thinks and is at the stage where she just wants to be mad about it. Reaching out would only make me look more guilty.

With a scandalized gasp, she jerks her hand free of mine and makes the biggest show of storming off without me. And just like the dumbass I am, I reach out to stop her.

"Oh, no ma'am! You don't get to do that! You don't get to touch me like that! Being a thief with shady morals is one thing, but if there's anything I don't associate with, it's a calloused, self-absorbed liar! At least a thief has the balls to admit that they're a thief," she says coldly, "Learn how not to be such a closed-off bitch. Then you can reach out for me like you actually care. Until then...the only person you'll be touching is yourself."

With that said, she storms out of the room in that over-aggrandized way that hints at just how long she's been in the performance business. If I were judging by that alone, I would guess her whole life. And just like that, she leaves me behind just as slack-jawed and confused as any and every other person that has ever felt the wrath of a woman scorned.

The next minute, a piece of paper is being roughly slapped to my chest—Judy at the other end of it.

"Arguing with a woman is a lot like pressing a hot iron to your skin," she says oh so matter of fact. Like I really need her life lessons right now, "It's painful. It's persistent. It leaves a mark that will follow you wherever you go until the day you die, whether you want it to or not. And in the end you're still just as unclear as to why it even happened in the first place," I continue to switch focus between her eyes and the paper she holds to my chest, more unsure about what it has to do with this speech, "but then, there comes a time when you finally have to realize, Quinn...you're the idiot that keeps pressing a hot iron to your arm."

She gives me a pointed stare like I'm supposed to understand what the hell that means. I have no fucking clue what the hell that means.

She slaps the piece of paper on my chest once more, then pushes herself away, "While you're in the market, be a dear and pick up these items for me, would you? God knows I can't continue to feed a full house with what I have. Since I haven't had the pleasure of such a thing in years."

Well that escalated quickly.

Then it hits me. Rachel's not the only woman scorned in this house. And no matter who's wrong or right about whether who's the good guy and who's the bad guy...that can't mean anything good for me.

* * *

><p>If you walk through a Friellian market during the day—when all it's people are busy and buzzing around to the visible eye—the only thing you will see is pale white skin, various shades of light blonder hair, and blue (or sometimes hazel) eyes. And not because anyone purposely made it that way or some sociopath obsessed with creating the "perfect race" by any means necessary succeeded in some devious plot to do so. No Friellian person thinks of themselves as superior to any other race—although religious superiority is a different story. But believing you are religiously superior is completely different than believing you are racially or culturally superior.<p>

In fact, the amount of emphasis they religiously place on modesty and temperament gives the culturally aware self-identified outlook that all Friellians are the insuperior of races and because of that will spend their lives being punished generation after generation. When in reality, it's mere happenstance that N'aefriel houses a race of white, blue-eyed, blond-haired people. My guess is someone with those traits randomly settled a family here and genetically it progressed from there with only those traits to go by, throughout the many generations that followed. But that's because I went to academy and learned enough about biology to make such an inference.

However, to someone who has not had that educational background as a reference point, who believes in all that religious mumbo jumbo, when someone who is not blond hair, blue-eyed enters the mix, it is extremely noticeable. And they are not shy about openly noticing anyone that is.

"Why is everybody staring at me like that?" Rachel asks keeping a wary eye out for her many admirers as we walk along the path leading to the city market.

"Because of your beautiful olive skin, rich dark brown hair, and deep chocolaty brown eyes," Brittany answers nonchalantly. Because to people like us—being where we're from and knowing what we know—that's completely obvious.

"What's so appealing about that?"

"We don't see that kind of thing around here too often. So when we do, people tend to get a little overly excited," Brittany explains, the cultural viewpoints between the two obviously causing friction in each girl's ability to understand the other.

For the most part, Brittany's right. We grew up hearing all these fantastical bible stories and religious teachings about people that were dark and mysterious and God [the very same one we worshipped and served] loved them—created them in his image. Which would mean that in some ways, he himself is dark and mysterious and that would make any relevant traits "God-like" and sacred. Especially to people who are the complete opposite of dark and mysterious. So in a land full of light-colored people—in N'aefriel—darkness is beautiful. It's exotic and wild and a representation of childhood heroes—the very same God favored above all else. And because of the rarity of it (in the eyes of these people), it is almost glorified.

Not that otherworlders with darker features are idolized as something greater than God—because that is most certainly forbidden—but it is recognized as something greater than what's already here, and being so, is regarded as such. It captivates and entrances us because of its rarity and perceived beauty.

I'll admit, I had a hard time with it when I went off to academy. So many new faces and new types of creatures all in one place that were so different from what I knew—I frequently indulged in those exotic appeals (the inappropriate innuendo fully intended).

You can never fully shake a cultural perspective. The longer you spend in one place, the more ingrained you become in it—all of it. And bits and pieces of that follow you around wherever you go for the rest of your life, shaping the way you are—who you become. I got used to it. And Britt did too, eventually—the more we traveled, the less the exotic appeal. But these people haven't traveled. They live here; on the same rock; in the same place; with the same people; and the same cultural views on anyone outside of what they know. Just like they always have before. To them, both Santana and Rachel are still very captivating and mesmerizing.

The Latina is used to the treatment she gets here. She's been to N'aefriel a few times before and has even come to expect a certain level of admiration when she returns to walk its streets. She strides alongside Brittany with a cocky self-satisfied strut; winking and smiling at the on-lookers as we pass by.

And Rachel understands the small town thing, I'm sure—considering she's from the smallest merc town I've ever been to. But that might be the only similarity between here and where she's from—which is a representation of everything she knows and what all she's been through. How else can I really describe it?

Rachel's from a place where 5 solar keeps will buy you a beer or a first class train ticket for a cross-country trip. The only thing 5 solar keeps will get you here, is a "welcome to N'aefriel" and a "we'll see you at church this Sunday." Two statements that mean absolutely nothing to anyone that doesn't live on this godforsaken planet. A waste of 5 fucking solar keeps that would be better spent on a beer or a first class train ticket for a cross-country trip. So the locals can be starstruck by the little foreign diva all they want, but I highly doubt she's as impressed with what she sees here. Curious, maybe. But impressed? Not a shot in hell.

I don't really blame her for being so wary of all this undivided attention.

"So...what does that mean?" The brunette asks. Curiosity getting the best of her like always.

"It means that, while you're here, these people are going to keep staring at you because your foreignness is pretty," I answer quickly. She just as quickly disregards everything I say.

"As I said, Brittany," the diva over-states in an attempt to rule me out, "What does that mean?"

"Um. Well," the blond looks to me unsurely needing some form of reassurance that it's okay to continue. I give that approval and she does the only thing she can really do at this point. Repeat what I've already said word for word, "it means that these people are going to keep staring at you because your foreignness is pretty."

"Wow. That's fascinating. So, I'm like what?"

"-A celebrity," I interject informatively. She still ignores me and gives Brittany a questioning look.

The blond once again looks to me in confusion for that same approval. I accept the fact that Rachel still isn't going to notice me, and nod my head once more with a sigh, rolling my eyes at the divas antics. This fucking game and the girls who play it. Brittany takes this as the approval she needs to continue. Once again, stating what I've already said.

"A celebrity?" She repeats cautiously.

"Yes! A celebrity!"The brunette calls out excitedly, "They're all like adoring fans. I must admit, I'm not used to this kind of attention."

I scoff.

"Oh, come on. You're a singer—a gorgeous singer at that. You get all kinds of attention."

Though it was said playfully, she continues to ignore me. And much like everything else the infuriating diva does, it tries at what little patience I have.

"Seriously?!" I shriek, "This is stupid, Rachel! How long are you gonna keep this up?"

"Until you stop being a jerk," she finally responds.

"Well then brace yourself," the Latina jeers from out of nowhere, "That could be awhile."

"Shut up, San!" I growl.

Rachel's stubbornness could outweigh her curiosity any day, given the right motivator. Apparently, me being a "liar" (as she's so wrongfully dubbed me) is the perfect one.

And in all this time, I'd been so focused on Rachel, I didn't even notice the fucking robot's gone missing. Which is only important enough to drop this because God knows what that little fucker's getting into.

"Where the fuck is CHEERI-O?" I say. I know that if I don't change the topic to something else, Rachel's only going to piss me off more. And I just might have to punch Santana in the face to make up for that.

"How the fuck should I know?! He's your fucking robot!" Santana screams back. Actually, I still might do that anyways.

"Streisand's ghost! Can we please stop using that word and act like we have a half-way decent grasp of the English language?!" Rachel intercedes.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Santana responds, each word directed at Rachel, "Fuck you! Fuck Q! Fuck you, too!"

"You guys," Brittany finally chimes in, stepping between the diva, me, and the hotheaded Latina, "Can't we all just get along?"

The little robotic voice that started this whole thing finally chimes in, "Hey guys!" He says cheerfully.

Everyone stops and looks to the little bot.

"This place is marvelous! Simply marvelous! One male humanoid used a singular rod-shaped device with tiny jagged-edges to open a door because he stated that the door would not open of it's own accord—after I offered to fix it for him of course. Then there was this strange piece of folded paper with a multitude of black blotches and lines printed upon its surface that I believe they called a 'road map.' Why anyone would want to map roads, I don't know. But that isn't near as wondrous as the object called a mailbox—it doesn't accept any form of electronic message at all. You simply put paper in it, wake up the next morning, and that paper has gone off to somebody else! I could hardly believe it. They wouldn't tell me where it goes. I'd imagine they have no idea at all. Then, there was something called a stapler and a paperclip—though I'm still not entirely sure what either of those things do nor can I compute a valuable purpose they might serve. Oh, and another humanoid used a thing they call 'checks.' Did you know you can write a number—any number you'd like—on a small rectangular piece of paper, offer it for trade, and merchants will actually accept this as a valid form of payment!? My circuits! Humans are fascinating creatures! Much like you, my lord! Oh, and most importantly yet, I met a 'Bob.'"

His left eye starts blinking rapidly. Giving the impression that he is winking. But it could also be mistaken for the robotic version of epilepsy. Actually, if he keeps it up any longer, I might even have a seizure myself. And I mean that very seriously.

"Oh! That's Sam's dad!" Brittany says excitedly, "Where is he, CHEERI-O? Take us to the Bob."

He leads us to one of the many rundown buildings scattered about the busy marketplace. The only distinguishing feature being a bright neon sign that reads "Open" hanging proudly in the window. I guess even neon signs are too "New Age" for this town. Not that the tech shop even needs a neon "Open" sign to really tell they're open. The door's propped wide open. People shuffle in and out with the inquiry of trade. I highly doubt any sensible shop owner would allow that kind of thing, with the door wide open to anyone and everyone if they had intended for it to be closed. Then again, if stealing were even an issue, I doubt anyone on this planet would think to steal from a tech shop. Wouldn't even be a blip on their radar. Either way, what's the point of having a neon "Open" sign hanging in your fucking window?

"Well I'll be. If isn't the trouble-mint twins here in my shop," a deep voice announces.

"Hey Bob," I reply starkly. My mood is now officially stuck in crapsville and isn't showing signs of leaving any time soon. Maybe if I make that evident enough, everyone will take a hint and give me some alone time. The one thing I don't think I've wanted more than I do in this moment.

Suddenly, Brittany and I are wrapped up in a big bear hug. I forgot how touchy some of these people can be. Especially the one's who aren't as welcomed in the community; as if they've never been loved enough. And want to make up for that in the affection they show for everybody else.

"I'll be honest, I never expected to see you back here—at least not this soon."

"Yeah, well it's under unusual circumstances," I reply chastely, "Judy sent us here. Said you might have just the thing to help us out."

He looks up at CHEERI-O, with the certain twinkle in his eye that hints at the love of the work he does. "Ah yes. Well if it's for the SR-004, then I have just the thing you need."

"That's the thing, we aren't really sure what we need. We just need something that might help us find Puck—it's a long story, I'm not gonna get into it, so please don't ask."

"Like I said, I can fix the bot, I got just what you need. But I should warn you now, if you're looking for something more like all that other stuff you kids are using these days, I think you and I both know I'm way too old world tech for that."

"How will fixing the bot help us find Puck?"

"I'm pretty sure that by now you've noticed that this little guy can't send or receive transmissions..."

"Um...no."

"Well..this little guy can't send or receive transmissions," he states plainly, "and that's because he can't decipher them. Little guy came bumbling into my shop earlier and I hope you don't mind, but I took a little time to have a good look at him. It's not every day such a rare piece of old world tech comes rolling up into my shop, so I was excited to take a look," I nod my approval for him to continue, "Well, like I said, I was digging around in there and noticed the guy's missing half of what makes up his Vitality module network. He doesn't have a Karjick pulse, which has been pretty vital to every model I've seen in this particular series. I mean, without that Karjick pulse, he has absolutely no ability to code and decode external communications which is pretty key to his primary functioning. Honestly, I don't even think he barely has access to his own internal drives."

Well. That would explain why the little shit thinks I'm a lion...it actually answers just about every question I've ever had about the strange robot. Except one.

"Okay. I'm missing the part where this helps us find Puck."

"Tech back in the old days was primarily preprogrammed to be highly receptive to outside signals. Not like today's tech, you kids are probably more used to, where everything's so digitally privatized. Stuff like this is pretty rare, so I don't know too much about it. But something about the Karjick pulse made all the old world tech very open to any outside signal—kind of like a radio. With today's tech, each device is far more complex, being uniquely programmed to only code and decode messages between identical devices—it'd take one hell of a hacker to intercept a signal from someone else. And this guy... he could have picked up pretty much any signal by anyone that was sending one out and that missing pulse is what enabled him to encode and decode the flow of communications—independent of whatever device it came from. But his is obviously missing and it kind of looks like someone purposely jammed his inter-neuronetwork a little as well."

"Why?"

"Who knows why beings in that time needed every device to be so open-sourced. I'd guess it has more to do with the fact that they didn't have much of an understanding of hacking and signal-interruption yet. That or that hadn't been much of an issue for them—"

"No, no! I mean, why would someone purposely jam his inter-neuronetwork?"

"Oh, well..my guess is, whoever stole his Karjick pulse, really wanted to cover their tracks. And that'd be the best way to do it. Messes up a perfectly good bot in the process. S'pose they didn't think anyone had the old world parts or knowledge to fix it. That, or they didn't think anyone would take it to the very few places left that could."

"That's really strange. I mean, he was kind of deserted out in the dangerously overgrowing jungle of Cyra. Maybe he got dumped," San thinks out loud.

"And that data disc is unlike anything I've ever seen before. Similar to your atypical data disc, yet having minute dissimilarities—" The diva interjects, ready to relay every ounce of information she has on the topic.

"Get to the point some time today, please," Santana groans. Rachel pouts.

"Rude," she snaps at the Latina, "as I was saying, maybe the disc is meant to be read by CHEERI-O—which would explain why our modern day technology rejects it. And why it scrambles any other signal within a 50 mile radius."

"So, would you like to buy these parts?" Bob says with the resolve of a true salesman. That's all he really cares about whether we get Puck back or not. Makes no difference to him as long as he gets paid and can put dinner on the table.

"I guess it's the only lead we've got at this point," I sigh, not all too combatant to the idea. I'm so tired of fighting everyone and everything about the stupidest little things.

"At the very least, we may be able to use this older technology to our advantage to search for signals that may belong to whoever has Noah," the diva supplies hopefully. And I hope, for the sake of her hope, that turns out to be true.

"Sir, might I suggest you use a check?" CHEERI-O adds on, butting back into the conversation, "Judging by my initial observation, it appears a jolly good way to receive any item you desire for no actual monetary exchange at all."

I give him an incredulous look, wondering how I'm going to survive in my line of work with his big mouth and lack of discretion in front of strangers. I don't know how much these people have heard about me, but I'm pretty sure they don't know that I'm a pirate. The last time they saw me, I was headed off to academy. To go off and be a well-rounded individual doing whatever it is people not from here do. God knows what they'd do if they found out I was a pirate. It probably be a lot worse than just being disowned like I was the last time. If they disowned me just because I chose to go to academy to further my education, there's no telling what kind of punishment they'd have in store for a convicted pirate. Meanwhile, CHEERI-O hovers next to me, waiting eagerly for an answer; just excited at the chance to see someone else use the "wonder" that is a check once again. I roll my eyes and ignore him. This robot's a fucking idiot. And if he gets me killed because of it, God help him.

Bob begins the checkout process using an old world cash register. Rachel and CHEERI-O stop babbling to watch in fascination. As he's wrapping up the peculiar parts and tools we will need in order to install the device into CHEERI-O, I realize not one of us has any experience with old world technology. Like, at all.

"Um..does any of this come with instructions?" I ask Bob warily, taking the purchased goods from his hands.

"I'm afraid not. I'd offer to help, and I know quite a bit about this particular model of robot, but unfortunately, I'm just a salesman when it comes to installations. My knowledge of mechanics and engineering are shoddy at best. I'd probably be more trouble than help," he answers. I groan in frustration, turning towards the door to leave without so much as a sarcastic "thanks for your help." Even though it's ripe on the tip of my tongue.

"Quinn, wait!" Rachel calls out after me, likely jogging to catch up to me from behind. I don't look back to find out.

"Oh, now you're talking to me again?"

"Stop being foolish," she snaps as she catches up, falling into step beside me, "I only wanted to offer my services in regards to CHEERI-O."

"Really? And what could you possibly know about old world tech?"

"Well..nothing," she says, confidence dwindling. I scoff my annoyance. It's hard not to get frustrated when people offer unhelpful assistance, "But I'm sure one of my microbooks could be most helpful."

"Rachel!" I stop just as abruptly as her name sounds coming past my lips. She flinches at the harsh outburst, almost running into me in the process, "that...is the best idea I think I've heard all day."

A smile warms my face, falling over her small demeanor and reestablishing that base foundation of confidence by which Rachel Berry thrives. She smiles back with the same warmth, ducking her head to hide it as it lights her face.

"Anything to help," she says quietly.

"Don't mind us!" Santana interrupts loudly, shoving her way in between Rachel and me, "Britts and me are gonna go save Puckerman. You two feel free to join in whenever you're done fucking like rabbits. Ay Dios Mios! And please, take your god damn time. Because it's not like we don't have people comin' after us or anything!"

I roll my eyes and Rachel chuckles. I mean this is the nicest way possible, when I say, sometimes I kind of wish they'd took Santana. But again...I'd never be so lucky.

* * *

><p>The walk back to Judy's house seems longer than it did going to the markets. Maybe it's because nobody is arguing this time. Or maybe it's because now that no one is arguing, I'm more self-aware of everyone and everything around me.<p>

The minute Rachel's hand slips into mine, time feels as if it's stopped completely. All I can focus on is the feel of her soft hand in mine; the brush of her thumb each time it passes lightly over my knuckles; and the occasional brush of our arms as a direct result of how close we've come in the act of holding hands.

My vision follows the contours of her arm, all the way up until I meet her eyes. That feel as if they'd been watching me this entire time. But I see that look of apprehension in them. That uncomfortable shifting that reminds me just how not alone we always are. Those eyes leave mine and seek out the many curious glances of the local passerbys. She squeezes my hand tighter in hers, obviously still discomfited by all the unexpected attention. There's nothing I can really do about that.

Three young girls pay particular attention, giggling and gossiping among themselves. I'm not completely sure, but I think they followed us from the market. All this time keeping a good distance, but acutely interested in the dark-haired diva. I hadn't really thought too much about it at first. It was expected that such enrapture would take place parading her about the busy town all day. But the three girls get progressively closer as we go along. To the point that small clips and phrases can be made out among the mere whispers and girlish giggles.

And though Rachel has nothing to fear about three little Friellian girls, I still sense that apprehension in her demeanor, the stiffness in her touch. If I had to guess, I'd say it didn't have anything to do with fear or safety. I'd say it had to do with being the talk on everyone's tongue.

If one didn't understand N'aefriel and it's fascination with dark, mysterious otherworlders, then one could easily mistake the giggles, whispers, and stares for some form of judgment. One of the most frightening things (that isn't harmful in the traditional sense of harmful acts) is knowing that people are talking about you without knowing what they're saying. We'd all like to think we're strong enough to handle being talked about. How many times do you hear 'I'd rather be talked about than not at all,' in your lifetime. But realistically, no one likes being under the scrutiny of others without the chance to defend themselves. Because that's all we really care about when it comes to people talking behind our backs...is the chance to defend yourself. Even when you don't really need to be on the defense. We don't want to be known through the mouths of someone else. We want to be known through the mouths of ourselves. Because no one knows your life story quite like you do.

Rachel hangs her head sadly. The smiles from before having long since faded to the growing chatter and girlish giggles. I want to console her. To assure her that this isn't at all what she thinks and that she has no idea how much of a marvel she is to this world—to me. But I don't know how. Nothing I can think to say seems powerful enough to reach past her ears and into the apprehension that holds tightly to her heart. But fear can do that to a person. Rejection can do that to a person.

And only a person who has actively experienced rejection can so easily recognize it when it looms so darkly over another's soul. Just another example of how pain connects us in mysterious ways.

"Um..excuse me?" A pretty young blond girl mutters nervously, the whole group of them having finally approached us, stopping us in our journey back to Judy's.

Rachel looks to me with that same swirl of self-consciousness in her dark eyes. I look back, ignoring the girls that weren't even talking to me to begin with, hinting that it's up to her to respond. This is between she and them and they wait patiently for her to figure that out.

"Yes," she says just as shyly. Her eyes shut, but she keeps her head towards me, still squeezing tightly to our interlocked fingers. I remain silent, as an observer. Letting this play out the way it will and hoping that what comes out of the next girl's mouth is something that won't shatter what little confidence Rachel has right now.

"Gosh, you're just so pretty!" One girl squeals excitedly. So far, so good.

"-Um..my friend here is really shy and thinks you're really beautiful and we were just wondering, since she's having her femtendes this moon, if maybe you could come—as the guest of honor, of course!" The other girl—who had originally approached us—spoke shakily, her friends still whispering and giggling beside her as she speaks, openly gawking at Rachel as if she were a God.

"Well," Rachel begins cautiously, "what would I do at this...celebration"

The diva looks to me to verify that the proposed event is indeed a celebration and that she's used the correct word in reference of it. Meaning, she has no idea what a femtendes is or why anyone would want to celebrate one. I nod my head encouragingly at the questioning gaze and give her a quick wink to let her know she should play along and I'll explain everything to her later.

The shy one finds the nerve to speak up before her friend can continue, "Whatever you want, really! You could do nothing and I'd be most honored that you came!"

The girl slunk back into shyness behind her friends the minute Rachel turned to watch her speak.

"Oh, well—okay then. Um.."the diva takes her time responding, not quite sure how to respond in this situation, "Well, if I'm to attend, I won't do _nothing_," she chuckles after a minute of deliberation. I'm excited to see her charm return, "Let's see...I can sing. Perhaps you'd like for me to sing in honor of your celebratory...celebration event."

She stumbles over the correct terms, still very unaware of such an occasion. I chuckle lightly from beside her. Which warrens a slight pop in the stomach in subtle retaliation. It only makes me chuckle harder.

This, however, doesn't deter the group of girls, who giggle and squeal among themselves. "Oh, yes! That would be amazing! It'll be at the county warehouse, fourth day, mid-moon! I can't wait to see you there!"

The whole group scurries off in a mess of squeals and laughter like the adoring fans they are. It takes moments before they are far enough away to no longer be heard. Though I'm sure they continuously glance back at the dumbfounded diva they've left behind even as they go out of sights view. Rachel stares off after them until their collective noise of excitement fully dissipates in the air. Then she looks back to me. The same disillusioned pucker across her face as she does.

"What was that?" She asks slowly, as if speaking in any other way might cause them all to reappear with the punchline to a bad joke.

"That would be N'aefriel, princess. C'mon, I'll explain it back at chez Fabray," I say cheekily, wrapping my arm around her shoulder and leading her off to catch up with Santana and Brittany who had left us behind minutes ago, "I tried to warn you."

And I'd like to mark this very moment as the moment I realized that coming to N'aefriel was DEFINITELY the worst decision we could have made.

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><p><strong>—END of CHAPTER 7—<strong>

**A/N: I haven't really gotten any reviews since about two chapters ago, but I have gotten an immense amount of followers and favorite updates. So thank you to those who have stuck with me so far with this story and to those who are new, welcome and I hope you enjoy the ride. All my love and kisses to everyone still interested in this, seriously. And I value your honesty, so don't be afraid to offer it.  
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**Next chapter will be in Rachel's view. And we'll see a lot of Quinn's homeworld through an otherworlder's eyes. I still have a lot prepared for this story, and we're only really just getting into all the good stuff. If you have any questions or you are unclear about something, feel free to ask. I do a lot of technical writing for a living, so when I switch back over to this, I sometimes carry over that boring technical style and sometimes don't catch it when editing. And I know how confusing it can be to read some of that, so just let me know if I need to explain something better or maybe even rewrite a section altogether.  
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**I don't have many followers, but the followers I have are amazing. And I am grateful for that. :)  
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**Until next time.  
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**—**t**he dangerbear**


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